


Indomitable

by orphan_account



Category: K-pop, VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Het, Gen, Gods, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Handwavey Greek Genealogy, Happy Ending, Happy endings all around I promise, M/M, Other, Playing fast and loose with Greek dress for the Aesthetic, Smut, mentions of rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-15 03:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12312645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The first Greek who sets foot on Trojan shores will die.At the start of the Trojan war, Hongbin is called from his throne and his marriage-bed to honor the oath he made at Helen's betrothal. He is not a hero, and he is not a demigod; he is merely a man, and he never becomes more.The gods, though, use mortals as playthings, and the Fates never cease their weaving.





	1. Domos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maledict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maledict/gifts).



> Wow, a Big Greek Mythology AU. From me?
> 
> At my [wip/abandoned fic sideblog](https://abjectfailures.tumblr.com/post/166206879264/ovid-au-behind-the-scenes), I’ve compiled an OPTIONAL AND SPOILER-FILLED cast of characters, lists of terms, and select sources, in case you’re interested or confused (you shouldn’t be). 
> 
> For the sake of keeping it VIXX fic, I’ve combined some gods and concepts into specific people, to make things more expeditious and easy to keep track of without knowing 3298098 different Greek gods and all the capacities in which they serve. 
> 
> ~~also don't fuckin @ me i know the chiton wasn't usually worn with the himation but i needed the Aesthetic of rome in the Epoch of mythohistorical greece~~

ACT I: DOMOS

“That Helen was no good,” Hakyeon said decisively, sleepily, jostling Hongbin’s fingers from his lips. “She’s fickle.”

Hongbin snorted indelicately, sliding his leg across the bed to tangle it with Hakyeon’s. Long legs, naked skin as far as the eye could see. “She gave Menelaus the time of day.”

Hakyeon probably raised an eyebrow, and Hongbin silently agreed (though he didn’t see, face half-submerged in a pillow). A Hakyeon piqued was a force of nature, and Hongbin smiled to himself as Hakyeon riposted. “She also left him—ah! Don’t you tell me she didn’t leave willingly, we all know—as soon as she saw her pretty young lover.” A derisive noise from Hakyeon’s side of the bed. “Beautiful Helen and beautiful Paris, fucking their fatherlands into ruin.”

A silence fell over the room. It stretched out like some awful beast of prey, readying to take down a deer.

Finally, Hakyeon rolled over, half-on top of Hongbin, limbs winding around him. “Don’t answer the summons. Let Menelaus fight his own war, with his own soldiers, for his own subpar whore of a wife.”

The looming specter of Trojan shores, now ever-present in their bedchamber. 

“Hakyeon,” Hongbin murmured, feeling the sudden dampness of tears on his neck. “Hakyeon,” he tried again. When Hakyeon met his eyes, it was tremulous and watery. Emotion crept up Hongbin’s throat like bile, like Eros himself had reached into Hongbin’s chest and given his heart a good squeeze. “For now? We’re here. In our home, together. I’m here, with you.” _Stay present in this moment_ , he didn’t say. _Let Fate worry about what’s to come_. “Yes?”

Hakyeon rolled his eyes and sighed, air rushing out against Hongbin’s face. “Yes,” he agreed petulantly, leaning down to press a kiss to Hongbin’s lips. “Yes,” he repeated, breathier, sigh quickly shifting moods as Hongbin flipped him over and bore him down against the feather-filled mattress. “ _Yes_ ,” he finally relented as Hongbin slid into him, still loose and pliant and slick with oil from their last contest.

Hongbin had won handily, holding Hakyeon down and taking him roughly, cries crescendoing and echoing off the walls. Hakyeon had come apart entirely untouched, raking scratches down Hongbin’s back fervently as he was filled.

This time was not the same, though. Hakyeon’s hands were gentle as he stroked across Hongbin’s skin, down his shoulders and back, over his buttocks. Hongbin pressed his lips to every part of Hakyeon he could reach, braced as he was with his hands on the bed over Hakyeon’s shoulders. He was awash in pleasure, in love, in _Hakyeon_. The feel of him around Hongbin, his body writhing up to meet Hongbin as soft noises of happiness and affection fell from his lips in a constant stream. 

Hongbin went still and stiff inside Hakyeon as he sighed again—Hongbin’s name, a victory—and spasmed in languid pleasure, seed trickling out between their bodies. The way he moved against Hongbin changed in just the right way to draw out his ecstasy, and Hongbin groaned long and deep and dropped his head to Hakyeon’s chest, biting down gently to anchor himself as he was lost again.

“The bedding will have to be changed,” Hakyeon said, apropos, when they lay next to one another once more, sweaty and sated. “We’ve totally ruined these furs. We should probably issue formal apologies to our staff.”

For now, a tentative peace settled between them, a willed ignorance of unresolved matters. Hongbin would have to leave one day, sooner rather than later. He was summoned to arms, compelled by an oath made before he was cognizant of its consequences, at his father’s behest. _To uphold Helen’s choice...to defend her husband against all those who would take her from him._ He remembered standing in the great hall at Sparta, the king of Ithaca urging that all the potential suitors gathered there bind themselves to one another.

It was for the better, Hongbin mused as Hakyeon slept peacefully against his chest, that Helen had chosen Menelaus, son of Atreus, once the oath had been sworn. The fates were kinder to Hongbin, granting him Phylace and Hakyeon under the eyes of coolly disapproving parents. It was unorthodox, by their custom, to marry for love. And beyond that, for love of a man, when one was also a man, no longer able to draw on the excuses of youth and curiosity.

When Hongbin’s father consulted the local seer, the birds held good portent for the union of Iolcus and Phylace. Their fathers consented then, no longer able to say the gods did not will the princes’ marriage. 

The gods did will that Hongbin’s father die in battle and leave Hongbin on Phylace’s humble throne, though, Hongbin reminisced bitterly. Until now, it had been a mostly symbolic throne, lord as he was over a city of unwarlike shepherds, much more concerned with fodder and wool prices than the intrigues of pretty blonde Paris and his adulteress.

With Menelaus on the warpath, though…

Hongbin held Hakyeon a bit closer as he, too, drifted into sleep, still uneasy. Still worried.

***

_Hakyeon’s legs around his hips as Hongbin carries him across the threshold. His tongue, sliding in a sultry roll with Hongbin’s as Hongbin braces Hakyeon against the closed door, rutting frantically against Hakyeon’s answering hardness._

_Hongbin dreams of their wedding night, the endless pleasure. Somehow, his mind leaves out the awkward parts. He is sure they’d bickered over whose what was going where, which decanter of olive oil was for bathing and which was for fucking. Why had Hongbin left them both in the bath chamber, really._

_Love swells in him like the tide as he remembers falling to his knees, worshiping Hakyeon with lips and teeth and tongue. Hakyeon has always been an eager lover, but Hongbin with Hakyeon is truly avaricious, drinking in his fill of Hakyeon and still thirsting. And this,_ this _, Hakyeon’s beautiful dark skin under his mouth and his lips hot and quick against Hongbin’s, his affection and devotion and his_ wit _, gods, his strategic mind, his head for numbers and solutions—Hongbin has all of this until the end of their days. Truly, Hongbin thanks the gods that Helen had not chosen him. She’s a pretty thing, but she is not like Hakyeon. She possesses none of his finest qualities. She could be the perfect queen and still Hongbin would choose even just Hakyeon’s cock over her cursed loins._

_The joyous marriage scene dissolves into a cloud of smoke, scented of incense and burnt offerings to the gods._

_When Hongbin’s dream solidifies again, he is standing on a rocky outcropping, looking over a long beach. Waves lightly tinged a rusty red lap at the sand. There is a tension here, the sky a torrid grey, the water on the edge of a tempest. Hongbin knows, somehow, that he's meant to wait here. Something is going to happen, and that something is momentous._

_He doesn't have to wait long. On the horizon, over the bloody beach, a fleet of ships—Greek ships—sails purposefully toward the shore. And now, with sharp clarity, Hongbin knows where he is._

_He is standing over the shores of Troy._

_There must be a reason, though, that the Greek ships are making their port here. He needs to turn around, to know what is behind him, what united Greece is up against. They are a people who believe in the augury of dreams._

_Hongbin cannot turn around._

_His eyes remain transfixed on the variegated wooden wall of ships, heavy and light alike speeding toward Troy. At the far reaches of the beach, a ship bearing the standard of the Myrmidons pulls ahead with the Spartan flagship and another that is recognizably Thessalian, and Hongbin watches as a man leaps euphorically from the Thessalian ship._

_No sooner has he hit the sand than a Trojan spear vaults from somewhere behind Hongbin, smiting the man where he lands._

_He falls._

_Hongbin cries out in denial. He bears horrified witness to the landing of the rest of the ships, the disembarkment among a shower of Trojan arrows. The Greeks are a seething mass, a vengeful wave, roiling as one up to Hongbin's watchpost. Up they climb, and up, until they smash right over him._

_***_

Hongbin woke with a start to see Hakyeon sitting bolt upright, spine held rigid, a trembling hand raking back through his hair. Hakyeon flinched when Hongbin moved, and Hongbin roughly thrust aside his own lingering dread in favor of concern. "Hakyeon?"

"It's nothing, lover," Hakyeon whispered, pressing his fingertips to his own face, under his eyes. "I had an awful dream."

Hongbin shifted, sitting up against the carved headboard. "So did I," he admitted, Hakyeon's hand moving to stroke Hongbin's arm, his neck, as if reassuring himself. "You should tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine."

"Bad dreams do seem far less terrible when spoken aloud," Hakyeon agreed quietly. "I'm sure it was just a product of worrying over..." He trailed off abruptly, and Hongbin took a deep, girding breath against his own fear and let himself sag into Hakyeon's waiting arms. Hakyeon hugged him close. "In my dream," Hakyeon began, "I was standing on the shore at Troy. The ships...there were so many. With Achilles and the Myrmidons at their head. Another vessel from Thessaly and one from Sparta right behind. And I saw a faceless man leap onto the beach, right in front of me, and fall to a Trojan spear." Hakyeon cut himself off, shuddering. "I heard him gasp for breath and choke on air, Hongbin. I saw the life bleed out of him into the sea. The water ran red."

All of a sudden, Hongbin could not breathe. He clung to Hakyeon in terror, formless and unspoken. Hakyeon, in turn, urged in distress, "Hongbin? _Hongbin_. Please say something, you're shaking." Hakyeon's voice rose in pitch as Hongbin failed to respond, awash in dread. Hongbin fought to master himself again—he was a Greek, born of the fatherland, and it would not do to hide from war in his husband's arms, trembling like a fawn sighting a wolf.

"Hakyeon," he gasped, once shallow breath returned to him. "Most beloved." Hakyeon's arms gentled around him, a physical barrier against the fate of Greece. Hongbin raised his head to press a kiss to Hakyeon's bare collarbone, salty with sweat. He remained still and silent, breathed in Hakyeon's scent, damp skin and olive oil and _alumen_ , the perfume of labdanum, cinnamon, and anise. Familiar from long days spent together, stolen from their studies, and from the life they'd built for themselves when they were grudgingly handed its raw materials.

At another quiet prompt from Hakyeon, Hongbin finally spoke. "I...in my dream, Hakyeon, I stood over the shores of Troy. I watch the man leap from the Thessalian ship. I saw him fall. I didn't see you."

He did not sleep after this admission, wracked for the rest of the night by panic-stricken sobs. Throughout the wee hours until dawn reached her rosy fingers into their bedchamber, Hakyeon and Hongbin held one another, utterly voiceless. Shared dreams were portents, sent from the gods. The first to leap ashore at Troy would fall to a Trojan arrow, and the war would commence on that very beach. 

Hongbin would be there, pledged to fight for Menelaus.

Hakyeon would not.

***

Sanghyuk groaned, scribbling down what Taekwoon prophesied in his soft voice, ponderous and heavy with the weight of finality. “Jaehwan is _not_ going to like this,” Sanghyuk complained, and Taekwoon cut himself off.

“…in twofold vengeance— _I know Jaehwan isn’t going to like this_ , but it’s not my concern,” Taekwoon responded grumpily. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanghyuk dismissed, going back to writing down Taekwoon’s oracle. “‘The Fates weave as they will, I’m just their mouthpiece’ or whatever your spiel is. Why do you need so many epithets, anyway? Every damn time I have to carry a message for you it’s always _the Consoler, the Blind God, the Unseen, Ruler of Many, God of the Earth_. Really. _He of the endless pompous epithets_ would be more appropriate.”

Taekwoon scoffed delicately. “You’re a god. A _messenger_ god. Your hand doesn’t cramp.”

Sanghyuk finished his note-taking and cast a scathing glance up at Taekwoon where he sat on his dark throne. In his dark halls. Under the earth. The rightful domain of the god of the dead, vast and dreary. 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he muttered mutinously, but dutifully rolled up the linen scroll and placed it carefully into the satchel at his side. “I don’t like taking down oracles that are going to put me in the middle of you two. I like you both equally—“

“You have an odd way of showing it,” Taekwoon interjected, eyebrow raised. 

“—and even if you aren’t taking sides in this whole Troy bit, which I get, because you _do_ have to host all of their souls anyway—I know Jaehwan is on the Trojan side here.”

Taekwoon’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “But then, shouldn’t he be _happy_ that Nemesis is taking the first Greek that sets foot on the Trojan beach? It is _his_ goat that wasn’t slain.”

Sanghyuk groaned again. “Jaehwan is weird about couples. He brings them together as the god of desire, and I…think he mostly just wants to play matchmaker. And he takes it personally when they’re broken apart.” He scrubbed a hand across the lower half of his face, shining white chiton rustling with the movement. “I’m going to get an earful about how hard he worked bringing them together—“

“Okay,” Taekwoon cut in again, “but that’s mostly because he’s an abysmal marksman—“

“—expect him to come down here and give you a piece of his mind, because he’s loud and pretty and not accustomed to being rejected—“

“I’m _not_ sleeping with him, I’ve told him every century since I took the throne—“

“—but I will deliver your message. Because it is my job.” Sanghyuk threw a pointed glance up at Taekwoon, whose mouth was set in a sulky moue. “I’m going now, expect the oracle to be in the Olympian archive by tomorrow evening. Assuming I don’t have to hold Jaehwan back as soon as I get there.”

Taekwoon let the air fall still before saying, quietly, “Thank you, Sanghyuk. For delivering the message, and for carrying out what the Fates have ordained.”

“It’s my job,” Sanghyuk repeated. _And not an enviable task this time_ , he added to himself before turning on his heel and jogging out of the halls of the Lord of the Dead.

***

“Of course, I won’t be at Troy,” Hakyeon reiterated, distracted, quickly adding numbers on the sheet of papyrus, ink flowing from the calamus in neat columns. “Someone has to stay behind and make certain that Phylace sustains herself through the war.”

Hongbin, immersed in a similar task, grunted. “If my father were alive now, I’d need to have strong words with him.”

At this, Hakyeon bent closer to his calculations, obviously trying to distract himself by throwing himself wholeheartedly into the census of Phylace, the accounting aspects of war preparations. Hongbin did not know whether it was working. 

“Taking you as a suitor for Helen of Sparta, I suppose I understand. A handsome young boy. But _binding you to fight on Menelaus’ behalf_ , Hongbin, it’s ridiculous.” 

And now they’d come full circle. After seeing the messenger from the kings of Sparta, Ithaca, and Mycenae off that morning, neither Hongbin nor Hakyeon could afford any longer to maintain their denial of the situation. Phylace must be mobilized for war, and Hongbin must go to fight for Greece, one of thousands united for the first time in centuries under a single man. He must arm every able-bodied man in his little kingdom, packing them all onto the forty ships Phylace held to her name, and sail to Troy to fight in a war that was not his own, by all reckonings except the one that mattered—the blood oath sworn at Helen’s betrothal.

Hongbin sighed, shoving aside a tally of the weapons and armor held by the city. “Do you remember when we met?” he asked, hoping to lighten his own mood. It was one thing to recognize that he must leave his home and husband soon; it was another thing entirely to actively prepare, to look at numbers and figures and draw up formations. The weight of destiny pressed heavier on him with each slowly passing day. He worried for Hakyeon, soon to be utterly alone in their barely-warmed marriage bed.

“You threw an apple at my head,” Hakyeon recounted, setting his own reed-pen down and pushing his chair out from the immense writing table. He paced the length of the table and sat in Hongbin’s lap smoothly, facing him and pressing his hips flush to Hongbin’s. Hongbin tilted his face up and Hakyeon leaned down with a small smile, kissing him indulgently. 

“You were trying to steal it out of my saddlebag,” Hongbin reminded Hakyeon when they parted, and Hakyeon huffed out a laugh. 

“I was actually trying to steal the letter from my father to yours, but you couldn’t think of anything but _protecting your snacks_.” 

Hakyeon’s arms wound around Hongbin’s neck lightly as Hongbin smiled up at him. “Not very well, if I was throwing them at you,” he retorted, and Hakyeon smirked in agreement. “And then our fathers treated with one another and I was stuck _talking_ to you. Horror of horrors.”

“My father wanted you to marry my sister.” Hongbin pretended to consider this for a moment. “Do _not_ say you ought to have listened to him, Hongbin Phylacides, or I will—”

“You’ll what?” Hongbin asked gleefully.

“I’ll make you do half of my figures as well as your own,” Hakyeon threatened, leaning in to kiss Hongbin deeply, slowly. He was so sweet and delicate above Hongbin that Hongbin could almost forgive him for threatening Hongbin with arithmetic. 

He wrapped Hakyeon up in his arms and pulled him impossibly close, so that, if the gods were willing, they could become one person, just merge together, back into the single being they must have been before the gods split their bodies in two. Hakyeon's lips moved hotly over his, and Hongbin felt the warmth of desire dripping through his limbs. Hakyeon's fingers carved through Hongbin's hair, curled into a fist, introducing an edge of pain into their kiss.

Hongbin made a strangled noise of arousal, fully intent on having Hakyeon right there in the drawing room, but then Hakyeon was pulling back, letting him go, sliding off of his lap.

"We still have work to do. The inventories need to be finished," Hakyeon apologized, anguish tingeing his voice as he returned to his end of the table. A strangely bereft feeling swept through Hongbin as he watched Hakyeon go back to his list. Hakyeon's agile mind and sense of duty had always been a point of admiration for Hongbin, until this very moment. Hongbin tamped down his emotions and said something in acquiescence, turning to his own sheet of papyrus. The numbers swam in front of him, tinted red, like the water at the shores of Troy.

They worked in tense silence until Hongbin threw down his calamus and screeched his chair back across the floor. "I can't bear this for another moment," he declared. "I'm going to the olive grove for light and air. I'll return shortly."

Hakyeon hummed vaguely in response. "Hurry back, love," he said perfunctorily, and Hongbin blew past him, out of the small palace and around the back of it, to the loosely arranged grove of olive trees. Sunlight and air. A light breeze. Verdant land all around him. No red to be seen.

Anger, unbidden, welled up in Hongbin's throat. No, not anger—disappointment, perhaps, the sting of Hakyeon’s indifference. Whatever the exact nature of this sudden feeling, it brought sharp tears with it, and Hongbin brushed them away irritably.

Throughout this entire ordeal, one constant remained: Hongbin did not _want_ to be angry. He wanted his final days with Hakyeon to be spent in the remnants of coital bliss, not tossed into the tide of war preparations. The throne of Phylace had never seemed to Hongbin so sadistic.

When, at length, he collected himself and returned to the palace and the drawing room, Hakyeon still sat behind the high table, hand continuing to fly down columns of numbers and names. He looked up as he heard Hongbin's entrance, standing up and pushing his notes to the side. 

Hakyeon careened across the room and into Hongbin's arms, clinging to him, limpet-like. "Hongbin, I'm sorry," he whispered, face against Hongbin's neck. "I don't want to upset you. I'm just—lately, just always so frightened."

The dregs of Hongbin's annoyance evaporated at Hakyeon's confession and he stroked his hands down Hakyeon's spine to the small of his back, resting his cheek against the crown of Hakyeon's head. His hair smelled of the same rich perfume as his skin, and Hongbin inhaled desperately. _Cinnamon, anise, labdanum._ It centered something deep within him that had been teetering off-balance.

This time, when their lips met, it was in a frantic rush, Hongbin rucking Hakyeon up so that their hips met in a quick grind. _I'm here_ , he tried to reassure both himself and Hakyeon, laying Hakyeon out on the table and rucking up his long chiton. Hongbin impatiently pulled the fibulae from his own knee-length chiton, letting the garment hit the floor as he slid off the perizoma beneath and finally pressed skin-to-skin with Hakyeon.

Hakyeon's hand skimmed down Hongbin's bare chest to brush dusky nipples, lower to circle around their cocks as they moved together. Hongbin took one of Hakyeon's earlobes between his teeth, joining his hand with Hakyeon's as Hakyeon gasped quietly, needily. "The servants—" he protested, too late, and Hongbin ran his tongue along the shell of Hakyeon's ear.

"Love, you act like Philokyros hasn't seen it all before." Passion, fiery and consuming, burned in him as Hakyeon's hand quickened.

"Philokyros will ask us why— _ah!_ —why we must be so indecent," Hakyeon breathed, laughing, as he arched up against Hongbin and shuddered, releasing between their bare stomachs. Hongbin swiped a finger through Hakyeon's seed, bringing it to his mouth and prompting a choked-off noise from Hakyeon. Hongbin rutted against Hakyeon's hip for only a few short moments more before his own ecstasy hit him, transporting him from his cares, his worries, from anything but Hakyeon, his beautiful skin sweat-damp, his face radiant with sex and affection.

***

For the following weeks, Hakyeon worked tirelessly, dawn to dusk. He surrounded himself with servants and tutors summoned from the city at large, delegating endless tasks in preparation for a tedious military campaign and the prolonged absence of half of the ruling family. 

Hongbin trailed along behind him, attempting to smother him in as much love as he possibly could. What time he did not spend with Hakyeon was spent with the master-at-arms, drilling the able-bodied men of Phylace in swordwork, or at their household altar to Hestia and Zeus _Ktesios_ , entreating the gods to look kindly upon Phylace when he was gone. Upon Hakyeon, their household, the slaves and servants, the silly fat cat Hakyeon called Chrysokomeeven though she was mottled grey and black.

_"She should have a flower name because she's so beautiful. Look at her eyes, Hongbin."_

_"Hakyeon, that is a glorified barn cat. She hunts vermin."_

_"She likes pastries," Hakyeon says, and Hongbin knows he's lost this argument_.

No sooner had they scraped together their forces, the forty ships from four cities which would carry Hongbin's men to war, the grain provisions for Phylace and the plans for succession if Hongbin should perish, than a messenger rode into the village bearing the standards of Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, Odysseus of Ithaca, and Menelaus—the Spartan king himself.

Hongbin sat in the high throne next to Hakyeon, clutching his hand in a white-knuckled grip, as the messenger spoke. His voice rang with finality against the stone walls, the assembled household staff and the city's landed citizens dampening the echo. As the messenger rolled up and tucked away his papyrus, Hongbin felt he heard the words anew, a refrain like one of their old stories. _The exalted Prince of Phylace, Hongbin_ Phylacides _, is hereby charged to fulfill the promise made to the joined Kings of Sparta, Mycenae, and Ithaca at the betrothal of Helen of Sparta, stolen most unrighteously from the palace of Menelaus by the perfidious Paris, son of Priam and prince of Troy. Prince Hongbin_ Phylacides _is to embark, with every able-bodied soldier in his domain, upon the fleet of Phylace's ships, and to sail to Aulis, and there to assemble alongside the Panhellenic force._

It was as altogether damning in his recollection as it had been when first spoken aloud. Hongbin turned his head to glance at Hakyeon, who maintained every semblance of composure as he dismissed the messenger, stating that he would be given every amenity Phylace had to offer before his departure to the next city called to arms. Hongbin, though, could see the hairline cracks in the perfect sculpture—Hakyeon's hand trembled in Hongbin's grip, his jaw was set tensely. He sat a bit straighter in his throne, not touching the cushioned back of the chair but holding himself rigid.

The filigreed laurels on Hongbin's head seemed more and more burdensome as hours passed, the duties of the princes of Phylace crueler and crueler. Hongbin and Hakyeon resolved small matters—the theft of a chicken, price gouging on imported honey, a minor brawl. These were the customary problems which were brought before them for a stretch of each day, when they held open court, and yet they all paled utterly in comparison to the newest task at hand. Hongbin knew that he was slipping from himself, unable to concentrate on chicken theft when he was to be ripped so soon from the embrace of his husband and from the city he had called home since his birth.

Mercifully, Hakyeon dismissed court as the sun began to dip below the horizon and flood the great hall with rosy light. He stood, Hongbin's hand still clasped in his, and led Hongbin out of the hall, toward their chambers, tersely ordering a servant in passing to have their dinner brought to them.

"Love," Hakyeon began, plucking the circlet from Hongbin's head, but he trailed off as he turned to place the crown on a high shelf next to Hakyeon's own.

Hongbin could bear it no longer, sobbing out, "I do not want to go to Troy." Immediately, he pressed his hand to his mouth, staving off the tears in his eyes. "I do not want to go," he repeated, muffled, tears beginning to spill over the brim. "I am no soldier."

***

Sanghyuk watched Jaehwan pace the length of his quarters on Mount Olympus, his himation, the pinkish color of warm dawn, wrapped haphazardly around him and trailing from one shoulder. "We must do _something_ ," Jaehwan insisted, once again, and Sanghyuk rolled over in Jaehwan's bed, luxuriating in the soft furs, the scent of roses and honeyed fruit that seemed to permeate them.

"You're the reason he's going to war," Sanghyuk reminded Jaehwan, bored, wishing he'd just come back to bed. "You offered Helen to Paris, knowing how weak he was. And you won the beauty contest with that. And now they're all fighting."

"I hear a thousand ships will sail."

"It's closer to one thousand, two hundred." Sanghyuk groaned. "Come back to bed, Jaehwan. Let fate take its course for once in your life."

Jaehwan stopped his pacing and turned to loom over Sanghyuk, hands fisted at his hips. This had the added effect of allowing his himationto fall from his waist and drape sideways, now revealing all except a narrow swath of skin down the middle of Jaehwan's body. "You haven't even properly told me what's going to happen. You just said there's an oracle from Taek, and that one of my arrows will be broken. Whatever the hell that means."

Sanghyuk pursed his lips but sat up in bed, swinging his legs out to cross the room, naked, to his satchel and pull out the linen scroll on which he'd taken down Taekwoon's message. "I need to copy it for the archives anyway," he grumbled mutinously, and sat down at Jaehwan's vanity. "Give me something to write with that isn't a kohl pencil." Jaehwan blinked at him mock-innocently. "Ugh." Sanghyuk reached into his enchanted bag again and retrieved his stilus and a wax-coated clay tablet from its endless depths. "Don't you have a temple at Troy to haunt or havoc to wreak elsewhere?" he muttered as Jaehwan leaned over his shoulder, but began to transcribe the words on the linen to the clay tablet regardless.

" _...a house begun in vain, since no sacrificial animal has yet appeased the heavenly masters with its holy blood?_ " Jaehwan quoted, incredulous. " _Marriage dearer than life and spirit; deep love, which, though he was indomitable, taught him to bear the yoke of matrimony_? Taek is really outdoing himself now." A beat as Jaehwan's eyes skimmed the rest of the scroll, and then he started pacing again.

“Taekwoon!” Jaehwan’s voice was plaintive as he whined to Sanghyuk, who replied, deadpan, “I’m not Taekwoon.”

“ _Taekwoon!_ ” Jaehwan keened again, flinging himself once more across the room, and onto Sanghyuk’s back. Sanghyuk made a small disgusted sound and shrugged Jaehwan half-off, but the damage was already done to the edict he was transcribing. His neat characters were entirely out of array now, trailing off into “ _broken at the behest of the Host of Many, Receiver of the Dead, Lord of Fates, Possessed of the Treasures of the…_ ”

Sanghyuk sighed and put down his stilus, turning to Jaehwan, who was now pouting in the far recess of his chamber, hunched over next to the furs Sanghyuk had left piled on the elaborately carved bed. “Oracles are always vague, Jaehwan. Maybe it doesn’t mean what you think it will.”

The sound that came from Jaehwan was pained and sad. “A marriage left unconsecrated, broken too early? Hyukkie, no one leaves a marriage unconsecrated. The goat must be slain. It _must_ refer to them.”

Sanghyuk hummed in apathetic affirmation. “Don’t ask me, because I don't know, and don’t complain to me. I have to enact vengeance. Doesn’t really matter whose.” A beat. “It’s technically yours, anyway. An unconsecrated marriage offends the god of love. That’s you, Jaehwan.”

“I am! I’m offended! I brought them together—Hongbin could have been with Helen! _Helen!_ —and how do they thank me? But it’s _my_ jurisdiction to be offended and to remedy this! You’re taking sides, Sanghyukkie.” Jaehwan’s voice lilted up at the end, entreating. Sanghyuk pressed his lips together, biting back a smart retort. “They’re good for each other. They’re the cutest couple I’ve brought together since—well, they're not quite together _yet_ , but! And I love how much Hakyeon _hates_ Helen.” He paused. “It won’t save the Greeks, but I’m invested in my cute Thessalian power couple.”

Seeing that Jaehwan wasn’t about to stop pouting any time in the near future, and unwilling to argue the Greece-versus-Troy bit with Jaehwan again, Sanghyuk shoved his writing to the side and went to Jaehwan, sinking down on the bed next to him. “I can go back down to the underworld and request an audience for you, Jaehwan.” He reached out, tugging Jaehwan’s hand into his lap and twining their fingers together. “I can’t guarantee anything will change—Taekwoon is _agetes_ , conductor. You know that. But...maybe he’ll explain why. Or he’ll tell you it’ll be alright. Fate works in the way that is best.”

Jaehwan scoffed. “Meaningless platitude. The Fates work however they will. Everyone who’s aboveground just tries to avoid or subvert their weaving.”

Sanghyuk pulled Jaehwan’s head to rest on his shoulder. “Yes, and how often does that work?”

“Seldom to never?”

“Seldom to never,” Sanghyuk confirmed. “Hey," he tilted Jaehwan's face up for a chaste kiss. "I know you're upset. Okay? I acknowledge that, and my part in it." He did not apologize; Jaehwan would not want him to. The gods worked only as they were meant to, and Sanghyuk was meant to carry messages, record oracles, and bring retribution against hubris, that human arrogance in the face of the gods _._

Jaehwan exhaled deeply, pained. If Sanghyuk had to guess, he'd wager that it was from sympathy for the soft-hearted prince who was to head to Troy and to his fate. For his lover, the husband left to rule alone. "Even if it isn't him..." Jaehwan kissed Sanghyuk again, taking his comfort the only way he knew how. "Please, let me strengthen him."

A tug at his core told Sanghyuk that this was the right direction. "Yes," Sanghyuk conceded, and, "I'll carry your touch with mine, when I go to him." Jaehwan's eyebrows crinkled earnestly, and his lips formed an unspeaking _thank you_ when he pulled Sanghyuk in again.

It was deep, dark purple night in Phylace when Sanghyuk left Jaehwan, clothed again in his white chiton. Sanghyuk wandered the sacred grove behind the castle for a time, running his hands over the olive trees, their thorns scraping ineffectually at his hands, before finally moving on to the task with which he was appointed.

The royal couple of Phylace slept twined in a sweaty heap of limbs, naked but for the light blanket twisted over their hips. Sanghyuk spared a thought for Jaehwan—they _were_ a cute couple. As Sanghyuk watched on, the taller one—the prince he was to touch—shifted, burying his face in the other's hair submissively and breathing in deeply. Humans could not take in scents while sleeping; it must, therefore, have been out of unconscious habit.

The shorter man made a sleepy noise in response and pressed his lips to the underside of the other's jaw. He drew the blanket to the side, tossing it off the bed with the impatience of the truly sleepy. After it was removed, they both fell still again.

Jaehwan's magic was contained in a small amphora that Sanghyuk extracted from his bag, dipping his fingers in the oil and pressing his fingers to the prince's temple. He wiped the excess on his thigh, bare under his chiton, and touched the prince again, lightly. _Boldness, courage, the need for glory_ , he murmured, and _the will to be carried by love through hardship_. Speaking a thing aloud made it true; magic imbued his words as much as his touch .Sanghyuk's job here was finished.

He ground the clay amphora to dust between hands which were, after all, divinely strong, and on winged sandals he left the palace at Phylace and set out once more for Taekwoon’s dark domain, the halls of the dead.

ACT I _finis_


	2. Interlude: Before Aulis

Hongbin is arrayed in his unscratched ceremonial armor, fitted with his barely-used shortsword and his purple himation. He watches the master of horse ready Hongbin's mount for travel to Pyrasus, Pteseus, and finally coastal Antron, where he will lead the men from Phylace's humble realm onto forty ships and set out for Aulis.

The ruling class of Phylace is assembled in the courtyard, with one notable exception. Hakyeon, a deep red himation over his unbleached chiton, stands behind the open threshold of the palace, his expression blank as he watches Hongbin make his final remarks to the court. Tears roll silently down his cheeks. He holds himself with all of his customary dignity and stoicism. In the unstoppable force of Hongbin's departure, Hakyeon is unmoving. 

Hongbin finishes his goodbyes to the elders of the court and jogs up to the palace main. He feels _heavy_ in the armor, clumsy in the long cloak, not at all fit to take Hakyeon in his arms.

Hakyeon spares him the decision, clasping his forearm in the way Greek men have always done. Hongbin holds onto Hakyeon's arm, too, one point of contact between them. The distance between their bodies seems so vast. 

Hakyeon makes no move to wipe his tears away. Hongbin's heart feels that it may vibrate out of his chest and shatter into dust, but, strangely, he is at peace with his fate. He must go to Troy. He must fight with honor and with bravery, and he must return victorious to Hakyeon. That is the only course which will make Hakyeon's suffering worthwhile. The long nights spent alone cannot be spent in vain.

For Hakyeon, then, and for Phylace, Hongbin will fight. And he will return victorious.

But at the incipit of this duty, he is at a loss for words for Hakyeon. His husband and partner, the man who has shared his bed through every season. 

"The campaign is meant to last for ten years," Hongbin finally manages to a stone-faced Hakyeon. Hakyeon nods once in acknowledgement, still holding tightly to Hongbin's arm. "I swear on Love and Desire, on Hera, _Zygia_ , _Gamelia_ , goddess of marriage and affection, I will remain faithful to you." Hongbin swallows around the emotion welling in his throat. "I will take no lover, but suffer the winters alone. I will anticipate nothing more than my return to you." Again, Hongbin must pause. "I already anticipate nothing more."

Hakyeon's facade threatens to crumble. The cracks show at his cheeks and the corners of his eyes, already wet with tears, moving infinitesimally as he collects himself. "You know how I feel," Hakyeon whispers. "The bed will be cold without you. I have prayed every day for the oracles to be wrong, for the war to come to a swift conclusion."

Before Hongbin forgets, he reaches into a satchel at his side with his free left hand, pulling out a small square of buttered tsoureki. "For Chrysokome," he explains as he hands it over to Hakyeon, who dissolves into tears. 

"You hate her," Hakyeon sobs.

"You don't," Hongbin says hoarsely. "And she will be here once I've gone."

Hakyeon leans in for a lingering kiss goodbye, tasting of tears and their home, soon broken. " _Philtatos_ ," Hongbin murmurs, and Hakyeon responds, "Most beloved." 

They let go of one another at long last, and Hongbin turns to join his men in leaving behind their home, and the city where they've built their lives.


	3. Ilios

ACT II: ILIOS

***

Wonshik looked out over the prow of the Phthian flagship. "Your mother doesn't like me," he addressed the blonde man at his shoulder, who cursed quietly.

"My mother doesn't like anyone. Well. Anyone _mortal_ , at least, and I'm not entirely sure she likes anyone _immortal_ either."

"You shouldn't say that," Wonshik chided, and Achilles made an indecorous noise. "She's your mother."

Achilles— _aristos Achaion_ , best of the Greeks—leaned his back up against the railing next to Wonshik. "She's so determined that I will be famous. Sung of, painted on vases, all of it. Beyond that, I'm not entirely sure she cares."

He was a sight, shining gold hair and white, unmarked flesh. Half-divine, born of a human king and a sea nymph. Wonshik did not envy him, placed at the head of the Greek force and prophesied to die in glorious battle. He had lain long hours beside Achilles in the cot they shared in the cave of the centaur Chiron, knew that Achilles did not want any part in it. Achilles was a lyrist, a singer. If he had his way, he would use his divine hands, destined for the spear, as nothing more than instruments of music and healing.

Wonshik let out a quiet breath. "You know she cares. If she didn't, she wouldn't disapprove of your choice in companions." A small, smug smile touched Achilles's lips. He reached up, brushed a lock of black hair out of Wonshik's eyes. Wonshik squinted his eyes shut, long-suffering.

"What use do I have for a healer—one who won't stand beside me in battle?" Achilles parroted Thetis's words. "I cannot die, and I cannot be hurt."

"Until Hector is dead," Wonshik reminded Achilles gently, and Achilles's fingertips were improbably soft where they caressed Wonshik's face. His fingers moved down to sweep tenderly over Wonshik's lips, set in a tense line.

"And Hector cannot die until _aristos Phthion_ has died. It's an odd bit of prophecy. Seems a bit circular."

Wonshik hummed, allowing Achilles to slide his fingers into Wonshik's hair and twirl it idly. "Yes, one would think that the best of the Greeks and the best of the Phthians would be one and the same." He paused to tilt his head further into Achilles' touch. "Perhaps you're doomed to reincarnation."

Achilles shuddered delicately. "Gods above, I hope not. I've suffered quite enough."

"You haven't suffered a bit," Wonshik argued, and Achilles tugged contrarily at the fistful of cropped hair he'd woven between his knuckles. "Fine, make your case."

"I have a child on the way in Scyros," Achilles pointed out. "I will never know him."

The breeze picked up and the ship lurched into motion beneath them, headed to skip down the coast, rallying the Greek force. "Do you want to know him? You didn't seem keen on his mother." Wonshik phrased this as delicately as he was able, ever conscious of Achilles's honey-colored gaze, reverent and fond whenever it lighted on Wonshik.

"She was clever," Achilles granted, "and in my mother's good will. I did not want her. I _never_ wanted her." Achilles's voice grew fierce at the end of this sentiment. _I only wanted you_ , he held behind his lips, and Wonshik was grateful.

Whatever Wonshik said in jest, the gods were cruel to _aristos Achaion_.

It had not been entirely clear that this was so until their last hot summer spent under the tutelage of Chiron, deep in the mountains.

_Achilles, long-limbed and graceful, swims across the waist-deep stream in which they bathe. He kisses Wonshik, achingly tender, and Wonshik's heart breaks for him. It has been obvious for years now, the way Achilles looks at Wonshik, like he is the stars in the night sky, the clouds where the gods dwell. The edge of desire, too, is now ever-present, the way the boys at home eye the serving girls of the palace._

_They touch one another with the tentativeness of inexperienced youth._

_"I am drawn to you," Achilles whispers, on another balmy night, when he thinks Wonshik is asleep. Wonshik does not move, does not respond._

_He feels his heart rend further, because there is no answering tug in Wonshik, no touch of destiny binding him to Achilles. His best friend, his lover, by whose side he hopes to remain until the end of his days. He loves Achilles with his entire self._

_It is not enough._

They had ceased their affair once they were summoned by Menelaus, and Wonshik felt no sorrow except in his sympathy for Achilles. _Aristos Achaion_ was entirely too honest and trusting for his own good, and Wonshik saw, every day, how he relished the small moments he stole now. He took them and hoarded them for himself, whenever Wonshik allowed him. A touch on Wonshik's lips. A lock of hair, curling softly around Achilles' slim, uncalloused finger.

***

The ships that sailed into Antron were impressive, arrayed with the banners of Sparta, Ithaca, Mycenae, and Phthia, the land of the Myrmidons. The tales told that they called themselves _ant-men_ because they were made into men by the gods.

Hongbin did not particularly care where the men placed their origins. He assembled, along with the landed nobility of Antron, to meet the kings under whom he would serve. Hongbin was at the head of the welcoming party, obliged to pledge his loyalty openly as the leader of Phylace.

He watched on, almost bored, as the men disembarked from their transports. Menelaus with his flaming red hair, Agamemnon, stony-faced. Odysseus, king of Ithaca, limping falsely on his cane.

The final pair Hongbin had never encountered before, but it was not hard guesswork. One of them was inhumanly beautiful, long limbs and pale skin. Golden hair, flashing in the half-clouded sunlight. He was clothed in a short chiton, as was Hongbin, and as was his companion. The golden-haired man was Achilles, whispered of as _aristos Achaion_ , best of the Greeks, from his birth. He was destined for greatness in battle. It was rumored that he could not be wounded. Hongbin doubted this; all men could be wounded. Some wounds simply were not fleshly.

Beside him stood a shorter man, much plainer, in a coarser chiton, without the rich purple himation of Achilles. He was built more strongly than Achilles himself, stockier, but without the burliness that separated the brothers of the house of Atreus. Hongbin did not know his name, and had not heard of any man taken by Achilles as a companion.

The party approached Hongbin swiftly, and Hongbin strode out to meet Menelaus, clasping his arm when it was offered, bowing his head. "Atreides." _Son of Atreus_. "I have come to fulfill my pledge."

"Your men?"

"We have forty ships between Phylace, Pyrasus, Pteseus, and Antron," Hongbin confirmed, voice steady. "We invite you to spend the night resting at the house of Agathos. I, personally, apologize that I cannot receive you in my own halls. I've left them behind at Phylace." Hongbin flashed what he hoped was a winning smile.

The party of Menelaus, Agamemnon, and Odysseus seemed pleased enough. Hongbin turned to address Achilles and his man directly, letting Menelaus's forearm fall. " _Aristos Achaion_ ," he greeted, "Pelides." He paused, shifting his eyes to the companion. "And...?"

"He is Wonshik, Menoitiades," Achilles cut in curtly. "He is to be afforded all respect you would give to me."

Hongbin kept smiling. "Of course. Menoitiades." He recalled, vaguely, some tale of woe about the son of Menoitius, king of Opus. He did not care enough as a child to know the specifics of court gossip. "Please, you and your officers should feel welcome. Agathos has promised a feast, at the very least, and most likely entertainment as well. Wartime isn't yet here, after all."

At this, the brother-kings made various noises of acquiescence and turned from Hongbin to retreat to their ships. Odysseus's gaze lingered on Hongbin for a moment, dark-eyed and sharp, before he followed. Hongbin was left with Achilles and his companion, Menoitiades.

"You ought to bring your men ashore," Hongbin tried. Achilles's perfectly arched eyebrows knitted together, but he nodded after a slight delay and turned to do as Hongbin asked. Hongbin did not miss the way he tugged lightly at his companion's fingers, brushing gently in a silent order to follow. The companion—Wonshik—bowed a bit to Hongbin, politely, as he turned to catch up with Achilles.

Hongbin was summarily swept up in last-minute preparations for the reception of the Greek party, though it was not his own home and not his own storage being plundered. Agathos had proven to be an adept host in the recent days, requiring only short confirmations from Hongbin to set any and all affairs into motion.

At the feast, Hongbin hardly noticed the revelry of the kings of Mycenae and Sparta, the calculating gaze swept across the room by the king of Ithaca. Odysseus was notoriously clever; it was at his request that Helen's suitors had been made to swear the blood oath, over the slain sacrifice of a goat. Hongbin could do nothing but hope that the king of Ithaca had no designs on him—he was, after all, not a major player in the drama unfolding between Greece and Troy. Phylace was neither large nor powerful, merely obligated.

No, Hongbin was not interested in the machinations of Sparta and Mycenae and Ithaca. He watched Wonshik at the far end of the high table pointing out the lyrists, the cithara players, leaning in to whisper to Achilles, intimate and low. It pulled at something in his chest, inextricably bound to Phylace and to Hakyeon.

_Hakyeon_. As he thought the name, he could recall exactly the beautiful face, relaxed in sleep, the scent of the perfume Hakyeon wore. Where Hongbin had been drifting away, uninvolved in the feast and the endless men surrounding him, he was now solidly grounded.

The war was already being woven by the _moirai,_ those three seamstresses of the world's course. Hongbin was going to his destiny, to fight and win glory for Phylace, and to survive—to return to Hakyeon at the end of the ten fated years.

As Hongbin watched, Achilles, obviously inebriated, moved closer to Wonshik, fingers gliding through the air as if on the strings of a lyre. Wonshik smiled, said some small thing in answer, and Achilles's face lit up with joy. He did not seem to notice the sadness tingeing the smile on Wonshik's own face as Achilles brushed his lips against Wonshik's jaw.

Hongbin was startled out of his reverie by Agamemnon, standing and banging his goblet imperiously on the long wooden table. The hall fell silent.

"Tomorrow," his voice rang out over the low buzz of activity, "we set out for Aulis. We will assemble all the men of Greece, and Troy will learn of the might of Hellas wronged."

A cheer erupted from those sitting below. Hongbin clapped enthusiastically, but his eyes were pulled back to _aristos Achaion_ and his companion. Achilles simply nodded his agreement, but his arm looped around Wonshik's waist—protectively? There was an undeniable element of it, certainly. The way Wonshik held himself rigid, though, reminded Hongbin painfully of Hakyeon on the day of his official summons.

Comforting, then, Achilles's arm around Wonshik. As the cheers died, Achilles leaned in, plainly seeking Wonshik's lips. Wonshik, though, turned his face away, and _aristos Achaion_ made no move to stop Wonshik as he pulled away, walking out of the hall and toward the atrium at the entrance of Agathos's home. Achilles was left at the high table, looking beautiful and bereft.

Curious, Hongbin stood, bidding goodnight to the lord of the house and to the men who remained at the high table. He excused himself, following sedately after Wonshik into the atrium.

He found the companion of Achilles leaning against a stone wall, head held in one hand, unmoving. "Menoitiades," Hongbin called softly to alert Wonshik of his presence. At Hongbin's voice, Wonshik looked up quickly, running his hand roughly over the lower half of his face.

"Iphiclides," Wonshik answered, polite but confused.

"I prefer Phylacides, actually," Hongbin said, smiling wryly. "Gods preserve his spirit, but my father was not the most agreeable man in Greece."

"Nor mine," Wonshik admitted. "Shouldn't you be inside? We leave at dawn."

Hongbin shook his head, hair falling across his forehead. He brushed it away. "I don't think I have much revelry left in me. I'd much rather the war be over."

There was a long, silent moment before Wonshik sighed, hand dropping to his thigh. "I'd much rather it never begin." He met Hongbin's eyes briefly, turning his gaze to the floor. "I've never been meant for the battlefield. Probably an odd thing to say. I _am_ the chosen companion of _aristos Achaion_."

"You don't sound too happy about that. Forgive me if I'm overstepping."

Wonshik made a small, dismissive movement of his head. "No. Not at all. I’ve invited you into my thoughts." He looked up, focused on Hongbin. His eyes had seemed sleepy to Hongbin earlier, the shape of them pulled down at the corners—now they were keen, dark and every bit as piercing as Achilles's own. "Do you have a wife, Phylacides?"

"A husband," Hongbin murmured. Wonshik did not react. "Hakyeon. He's remaining in Phylace and ruling there. I won't see him again until the war's end."

Wonshik's breath left him in a quiet rush. "You don't understand your own luck." His lips pressed into a tense line. "Achilles will not see the war's end. And I am his companion. There is no hope for my life, either." Wonshik turned his head to the side and swallowed thickly. "I would so much rather the war never begin."

Hongbin let the fraught layers of Wonshik's admission lie, choosing instead to reach out, clasping Wonshik's shoulder and running his hand down Wonshik's upper arm in a soothing gesture. There were no words he could offer. His wisdom did not greatly exceed Wonshik's—they, and Achilles, and Hakyeon, were almost of an age. Not more than four or five years separated him from Wonshik.

They stood in silence, then, with their own thoughts. Eventually, Wonshik ran his fingers back through his hair and released a rattling sigh. "I have to go back to Achilles now. He'll know exactly what I'm doing. We had this conversation months ago, when Menelaus came and ordered me to make good on my promise."

That was a conversation for another time. Hongbin bid Wonshik goodnight and watched him retreat into the great hall, shaking his limbs as if to loosen them.

When Hongbin slept, he dreamed of Hakyeon, of returning home victorious. Of Hakyeon's clear voice sighing _I love you_ , and his perfume of cinnamon, anise, and labdanum.

***

The ships which would bear Hongbin's men to Aulis _were_ impressive, but not as impressive as the grand procession of ships from Mycenae, Sparta, and Phthia. Hongbin had already decided this, at the initial arrival of the fleet into Antron. They were all, however, massive in the new light of dawn, sunlight barely spilling over the harbor and limning the ships in gold. The flagship of the Ithacan fleet gleamed, with fresh polish and a carved figurehead of which Odysseus was inordinately proud. The swift, streamlined ship which carried Achilles and his companion, though, outshone even Odysseus's in sheer majesty.

Hongbin was acutely aware of his own pristine fleet, the old ships which had been repaired and refitted under Hakyeon's adept management. Hongbin had held no part in it; for that seemingly interminable stretch of time, he had attempted to whip a force of peaceable shepherds into soldiers for their fatherland.

The going was slow as the ships skimmed the coast of Achaia; the journey to Aulis, if the winds continued, would be three days from Antron. The others had sailed for two days already, stopping only to make port at Antron and rally Hongbin’s forces.

Aulis was a jutting spit of land down the Achaean coast, at straits with Euboea. Her shoreline was rocky and barren, good for practically nothing except for its appointed task—a gathering ground for the combined forces of all of Greece. Bloodless, ruthless Agamemnon, the anger and the might behind the threat of Menelaus, desired nothing more than to see his entire fleet, assembled in a raging mass, primed for the glory of war and revenge on Troy.

On the third day, exactly to plan, Aulis appeared on the horizon—dark rocks, inhospitable shores in the choppy waters of the strait. Hongbin's flagship followed in close pursuit of the three others, and all at once he saw the banners of those who had reached Aulis before them. Thousands upon thousands of men blanketed the beach, and the shoreline itself was walled off with ships of every description, heavy, light, large and small. As their party made the final approach, Hongbin spied the bright banners of kings' pavilions, the unbleached canvas tents in haphazard rows. Aulis roiled with motion.

Only one stretch of beach remained devoid of ships, obviously meant for the arrivals from Ithaca, Mycenae, Sparta, Phthia, and Phylace. There was the great splashing of hundreds of anchors weighed, and then _shouting_. Oh, the _shouting_ , the great outcry as all Greece laid eyes on _aristos Achaion_ , gleaming just as his ship did in the sunlight.

Their men were already wading to shore, some with greater enthusiasm than others. On the Phthian flagship, Hongbin could just make out Wonshik, moving to stand at Achilles' shoulder. Achilles tossed back his head and stood taller, appearing somehow _larger_ than he had during the glimpses Hongbin caught of him on the three-day journey, and before, at the feast at Antron. Wonshik dulled further by comparison; the light which radiated from Achilles did not spread to Wonshik even as Achilles clasped his hand furtively, hidden from the Panhellenic gathering by the ship's polished rails.

Achilles spoke, voice ringing, to the Greeks—he would bring them victory. He was _aristos Achaion_ , trained by the centaur Chiron, a teacher of heroes. He was the son of Thetis and of Peleus, the king who dared to conquer a sea-nymph.

Hongbin was not a man easily inspired by flashy words from men who had not earned greatness; by nature, he would have ignored Achilles' speech, and on a conscious level, he went about his business aboard ship, gathering his belongings and directing his head officer, Podarces, to their campsite with an outstretched hand.

Viscerally, though, Achilles sparked new fire into Hongbin. A zealous enthusiasm to begin the labor of recovering Helen from the nefarious Trojans sank its claws deep into Hongbin and he moved with new vigor to make camp, to lead and direct and arrange. He wanted nothing more, suddenly, than to serve Greece.

Lying awake the first night on Aulis, Hongbin knew something was amiss. He could recall the way he had reacted to the news that the Atridean brothers sought revenge against Paris of Troy; the blood had fled from his face, and he had been ripped away entirely from himself. His eyes had unwaveringly sought Hakyeon, gauging his reaction, feeling the sudden haze of anxiety in the great hall at Phylace. Remembered his heart moving at double speed, and, above all else, the fierce _need_ to be alone with Hakyeon, to grieve privately for their still-green household.

In none of this had he once thought of Greece, of justice, of Achilles and grand prophecy and the scheming, thrice-damned king of Ithaca. He dwelled on this for hours, trying to summon back the exact feelings, finding that he could not. His grief seemed as far removed from him now as his husband; five days' journey by ship followed by two days on horseback separated them. Love, yes, he felt that, a warmth suffusing his being. A quiet yearning for his simple home and his chambers, the tasteful household altar and the routine of life.

Grief, though, eluded Hongbin. He strove to feel sorrow at his separation from Hakyeon, and every time he conjured up the image of Hakyeon's tearful face, his lips moving in their accustomed words of affection, misery slipped through his fingers. It was maddening.

Exhausted, frustrated, Hongbin fell into uneasy slumber.

***

"I _know_ I said I'd get you an audience," Sanghyuk protested as he was bodily dragged, "but I did _not_ say I'd go with you." Jaehwan was small but determined, his hand claw-like on Sanghyuk's wrist, preventing him from squirming away. "I don't _like_ the underworld, Jaehwan! It's dark and sad and Taek always looks so _solemn_. He doesn't get laid enough."

"He doesn't get laid _at all_ ," Jaehwan said ferociously, through gritted teeth. "He doesn't get one pretty finger on that frozen cock until I've had words with him."

This had utterly no calming effect on Sanghyuk, who nonetheless ceased struggling, letting Jaehwan tug him along. "He leaves his libations out everywhere, too. Amphorae of wine all over the place. Maybe you should intervene." If he could not make Jaehwan stop his tirade, perhaps Sanghyuk could make him laugh.

The odds were not in Sanghyuk's favor today, it seemed. "Please," Jaehwan derided. "You know he doesn't drink them all at once. The most hungover I've ever seen Taek, he was still _functional_. _Eukles_. Ugh, fair-famed. Dignified. Perfect, _good_ Taek, neutrally ripping apart all of my hard work. If my standards were low enough, I'd hate-fuck him right there on that stupid grand throne."

Jaehwan paused right inside the gates of the dead to coo at Taekwoon's unholy beast of a dog. He crooned nonsense at it, scratching at all three heads until Kerberos flopped to the side, tongues lolling out happily.

"Great," Sanghyuk quipped. "Taekwoon's pet monster gets more attention than I do. Don't mind me." He tugged at Jaehwan's himation until he turned from the dog, bringing him in for a slow, salacious kiss. Jaehwan's body melded to Sanghyuk's, arching his back as he stood on his toes to reach Sanghyuk's lips. All too soon, though, Jaehwan ripped himself away, smacking his open palms against Sanghyuk's chest angrily.

"Have _some_ shame, Sanghyuk!" he castigated. "We're among the dead." Jaehwan turned on his heel and stalked off toward the throne room.

Sanghyuk trailed after him, feeling distinctly chastened. By _Jaehwan_ , of all immortal beings. Jaehwan, who'd moments before been outright insulting Taekwoon in his own domain. Sanghyuk cursed quietly, indignant, and crossed his arms.

Before Sanghyuk even entered the throne room, Jaehwan's voice, pitch rising higher and higher, floated out to him, resounding from the high arches of the walls. "— _do you think you're doing, treading on my ground, you come into_ my domain _and presume to dismantle my efforts—"_

Jaehwan was pacing back and forth, gesticulating widely, his himation beginning to slide seductively from his shoulder. As Sanghyuk slipped unnoticed into the throne room, Jaehwan let out a disgusted noise and hitched it back up, wheeling around to face Taekwoon full-on. "And another thing! _You didn't intend for me to know_ , Taek! You sent Sanghyuk to Olympus to enter it into the archives without ever _informing me_!"

Taekwoon's face never moved, but his soft voice floated under Jaehwan's piercing one. "I do apologize for that, Jae." At the use of his small name, Jaehwan visibly deflated, and Taekwoon's expression softened. "You know I don't control the Fates."

"Taek," Jaehwan entreated, and his tone was earnest now. "They're one of my finest accomplishments since the _dawning of time._ They're _perfect_ , as far as humans can be—which really is just...perfect for one another." Jaehwan paused, considering his next words. "I've worked so hard to bring them together. And I try _so hard_ to love _you_ and take care of you, even when you make it very, very difficult. Please...don't let them be torn apart. If not for any love of humanity, then for whatever love you have for me in your—"

_Don't say 'frozen heart,'_ Sanghyuk begged Jaehwan internally. Jaehwan was doing so well.

"—whatever love you have for me," Jaehwan amended. Taekwoon raised an eyebrow.

"Of all the pairs you've brought together, Jaehwan, how do you _know_ the oracle refers to them?" Taekwoon asked, honestly puzzled.

Jaehwan resumed his pacing, the circle tighter now, right at the foot of Taekwoon's dark throne. "It _must_ be them. _A house begun in vain, since no sacrificial animal has yet appeased the heavenly masters with its holy blood_. Compelled to let go of one another before a full year has passed. I _know_ when a sacrifice has been neglected, Taek."

"Then you should be pleased, should you not?" Taekwoon made an obvious attempt to steer the conversation in the direction he'd taken with Sanghyuk, but Jaehwan plowed over him like a racing chariot.

"Tell me if it's them, Taekwoon," Jaehwan demanded, stopping again, facing Taekwoon. "Just tell me if it's them. Decisively."

Taekwoon took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh as he recovered his composure. "I can't tell you," he said quietly, his solemn visage firmly back in place. Jaehwan covered his mouth with his hand, strangling a scream of vexation. "Even if it were, I don't have the power to stop the weaving of the _moirai_ , Jaehwan."

Jaehwan strode right up the steps of Taekwoon's throne, tilting his head up to invade Taekwoon's personal space. Taekwoon sat unflinching, looking expectant. " _Tell me_ how it _ends_ ," Jaehwan growled, dangerous and low. "I have a personal stake in the consecration of this marriage, and it's _my domain_. If I don't receive due sacrifice, I will rend the earth apart to receive my tribute."

"You will receive your tribute," Taekwoon said, after an anxious pause. "Revenge will be taken twofold." He reached out with his long, pale fingers to run them over Jaehwan's cheek, hot with rage, stained with ichor from his infuriated tears. He lowered his eyes to meet Jaehwan's. From where he stood at the side of the throne room, Sanghyuk saw Jaehwan's face, still the very image of love's wrath. "The _moirai_ do not err in their weaving. They are not fallible as we are." Taekwoon leaned closer to Jaehwan, slipping his fingertips down to press under Jaehwan's sharp chin. "Keep watch over your Phylacian princes, Jaehwan. Allow fate to take its course."

Jaehwan lifted his chin pugnaciously. "If I simply _allowed fate to take its course_ , you would not be so fortunate as you are." His eyes narrowed viciously. "I have searched _heaven and earth_ , I have torn apart time itself for you, Taekwoon. I have power even over the Lord of the Dead, _Hades Nekrodegmon_. You would do very well to remember that, the next time you conspire to cross me."

Taekwoon looked distinctly uneasy. Sanghyuk, judging any productive conversation to be over, cleared his throat pointedly. "So, are you two going to fuck? Because if not, Jaehwan really should be _dealing with the Trojans_ right now, or wrecking someone's life for sport."

They broke apart suddenly, as if only now remembering that Sanghyuk was present. Jaehwan sighed, but backed away from Taekwoon, who mastered himself, falling easily back into his cool facade. "Watch over them, Jaehwan. The fates will work as they will." With this, Jaehwan nodded formally, hitching up his himation again.

"Thank you for seeing me, Taekwoon."

"You are forever welcome in these halls, Jaehwan, but only briefly."

Jaehwan swept out of the throne room and Sanghyuk inclined his head and shoulders in an awkward bow to Taekwoon. "I'm sorry he yelled at you," Sanghyuk tried. "He's not pleased with me, either."

"He will recover," Taekwoon said with a small, secret smile, and Sanghyuk stood briefly at attention, saluting, before he hurried to catch up with his wayward lover.

***

Hongbin was awakened in the wee hours by a rustling at the entry of his tent. His officers had deigned to sleep with their men, and Hongbin was alone but for the dagger at his bedside. He lurched awake and lunged for it, wielding it clumsily at the intruder, who was none other than—

"Menoitiades?" Hongbin slurred, dropping his knife and scrubbing his hands over his eyes, trying to jolt himself into consciousness. The panel of fabric serving as the tent's door dropped shut behind Wonshik, leaving them blind in the night's inky darkness. Hongbin's vision adjusted slightly, and he could discern Wonshik's silhouette, pacing forward to sit at the end of Hongbin's bedroll.

"I think you can call me by my name," Wonshik said quietly, as if it were entirely unimportant. He sounded out of breath. "I cannot tell Achilles."

Hongbin's mind, sluggish, took a moment to catch up. "Can't...tell Achilles. What?"

Wonshik rustled again, restless. Hongbin shook his head to clear the remaining bleariness of sleep and pitched himself forward, groping in the darkness for where he thought Wonshik's arm would be. He missed the first time, catching himself on Wonshik's thigh, and righted himself as Wonshik huffed out a surprised laugh. When he spoke again, his voice was somber.

"I dreamed of the Lord of the Dead. Hades _Polyxenos_." Wonshik's heavy panting sounded deafening in the still air. "It was at Troy. He stood next to an overturned chariot and Achilles's armor...all over the ground, Phylacides. He stood there, and he turned, and he _held out his hand_." Wonshik's voice grew hoarser and hoarser as he became frantic.

Hongbin squeezed his hand on Wonshik's shoulder. "Wonshik, it was just a dream. We're at the brink of war. It's not uncommon to have nightmares."

The air fell quiet again, heavier now than it had been. "No," Wonshik murmured, barely disturbing the silence. "Hongbin. I felt _drawn_. Like I would know _peace_ if I simply...took his hand." Wonshik's hand came up to grip at his hair, carving his fingers back through it impatiently. " _The Lord of the Dead_ , Hongbin, appeared to me and offered his hand, and I _wanted to take it_."

In the pitch-dark night, Hongbin offered Wonshik the only comfort he could. He allowed the silence to hang between them, not speaking to make further light of Wonshik's dream, making no pretense at dismissal. Instead, he moved his hand to the juncture of neck and shoulder, kneaded the thick muscle there, hard with tension.

Wonshik did not speak, either; he merely raised one hand to clasp around Hongbin's wrist in tacit appreciation. When, at length, the set of Wonshik's shoulders eased, his breathing calmed, he stood, skimming his fingers down Hongbin's arm to clutch at his fingers gratefully. Wonshik did not say anything more, though, as he turned and fled back to Achilles.

***

The Greek soldiers showed, at once, fanatical devotion to their newly arrived exemplar. The men of Greece flocked to Achilles, eager to serve alongside _aristos Achaion_ , inflamed with enthusiasm for Menelaus's cause. Agamemnon's strategy was simple: a concentrated, swift strike on the Trojans. A display of Greek strength and fury, gaining the upper hand at the outset and never relinquishing it until it was no longer needed.

Aulis, though, had other plans.

Wonshik, shoulder-to-shoulder with Achilles, stood in front of Hongbin's tent as he exited, still only half-awake. "What's this?" Hongbin inquired, seeing Wonshik's jaw set in its accustomed tension. Achilles shifted on the spot, looking for once distinctly human.

"Automedon has informed us that we won't be sailing today." Achilles turned his gaze to the sky briefly. "There is no wind."

"It's a full day's journey to Troy, even with the wind on our side," Wonshik added. "The oarsmen cannot do it."

Hongbin hummed his agreement. "They are strong. But a day of rowing—more, even—is beyond them. And Agamemnon sent you to inform me?" Hongbin choked back a wide yawn. "Wouldn't Podarces have been a more intuitive choice for that duty?"

"Wonshik wished to tell you himself," Achilles said, and to Hongbin it seemed grudging. He made no comment, though, only inclining his head.

"I see. Wonshik, thank you. And Pelides, you as well."

"Agamemnon will be announcing it in the agora shortly," Achilles added, and turned to stride swiftly away, back toward the Myrmidon camp. Wonshik remained behind, tugging his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. He released it, and his hand twitched toward his hair as if to sweep it back, a fidgety gesture Hongbin had noted when Wonshik was troubled.

Hongbin blinked hard, vanquishing the last remains of slumber. "Are you alright?" he asked Wonshik, keeping his voice low and personal. Wonshik exhaled through his nose, a long, tired breath.

"I did not sleep well after I returned to Achilles's tent. But yes, I am alright."

As Hongbin made to reassure Wonshik again, something occurred to him. "At Agathos's feast, you said you were called to make good on your promise by Menelaus."

A wry smile touched Wonshik's lips. "Yes," he affirmed. "I was at Helen's betrothal. My father...wished to bring prestige to Opus. And as he was married—not happily, but married—to my mother, I was the only candidate."

"And you came to Phthia—how?"

Wonshik laughed, bitter and hollow. "A story for another time. Agamemnon's captain seems to be screaming."

Side by side, Hongbin and Wonshik made their way to the agora, the open space growing crowded already. Hongbin stood with the rest of the lesser kings, and Wonshik with shining Achilles, all of them sweating in the rising heat. The weather was uncannily hot, the air unnaturally still. The Greek fleet could not sail without wind, and not so much as a breeze stirred the shores of Aulis.

Hongbin's fervor waned with each day that passed in arid stasis. He sat on the beach, the sand scorching him, the water in which he dipped his toes more akin to a bath than a raging sea. Cloth began to chafe, blankets at first becoming too rough for his skin, then the softer fabric of his chiton, the himation abandoned in his tent.

Wonshik coated Hongbin's reddened shoulders with salve, a recipe learned during his seclusion with Achilles on Mount Pelion. Every day, Achilles and Wonshik took what cool they could from the seawater as Hongbin watched on, and every evening after a meager dinner Hongbin sat unclothed in his tent under Wonshik's gentle touch. They held the same conversation over and over— _Do you think the wind will come tomorrow? Why did it not come today?_

Was this how Hongbin's decade away from Phylace would be spent? Motionless, grounded on a spit of land which represented nothing except impotence in the face of the gods? For _this_ he had left everything behind?

Hakyeon, ever-present in the back of Hongbin's mind, proceeded to the forefront. Achilles's honey-colored eyes were always soft and desirous on Wonshik, bare and wading in the sea, submerged to his waist, sometimes falling ungracefully backward to go under the water entirely. It brought Hongbin shadowy memories of that same look in his own eyes, turning to Hakyeon as they presided over the matters of shepherds in their throne room—knowing that decorum dictated his actions, but _wanting_ nonetheless.

For two weeks, uninterrupted, this was the fixed course of the days: awakening to the heat and the torpid air, eating through stored food supplies, lazing about near the placid sea. On the fourteenth night, as Wonshik's fingers danced over the knotted muscles of Hongbin's back, bringing the relief of medicine, their conversation changed. "Achilles has gone to his mother."

Hongbin would have turned, had it not been agony on his livid skin. "Oh? Permanently?"

"I will hit you," Wonshik threatened, but the words thankfully held no fire. Hongbin could not handle any more heat, metaphorical or otherwise. "She is a sea nymph. He hopes she will cast some light on the winds. Or, rather, on their lacking." Hongbin nodded, and Wonshik's fingertips smoothed a new coat of salve over the previous one. At this, Hongbin groaned, sagging back into Wonshik and hissing as his flesh made contact with Wonshik's bare chest.

" _Zeus Hypatos_ ," Hongbin swore vehemently, jerking away as if he'd been burnt. _Further_ burnt. Wonshik made a crooning noise of mock sympathy, but blew cold air apologetically on Hongbin's stinging skin. "I will pray that Pelides has a fruitful conversation. I will pray with all I have. I will pray for the winds to come. _Zeus Hypatos_ , I'm tired of this unfortunate pile of rocks."

Wonshik's low, rumbly laughter diffused through the tent as he bid Hongbin goodnight, promising to relay to him the outcome of Achilles's talk with Thetis.

***

"The gods," Wonshik reported the following day, as they lagged behind Achilles, who strode ahead toward the water quickly, frustrated.

"And I suppose Achilles's mother cannot say _which_ gods," Hongbin added cantankerously. Wonshik's hand ran through his hair; it came away drenched in sweat, and Wonshik looked at his flesh as if it had somehow betrayed him. "He seems particularly irked today."

Wonshik sighed, letting his soiled hand drop to his side as he watched Achilles throw himself into the sea. "He told Agamemnon what his mother revealed, and he was dismissed. Agamemnon will not listen to _aristos Achaion_. He likely feels usurped."

Hongbin groaned, exasperated, the sun already beating down on him anew. "No man is above the gods. He can't _will_ the winds to obey him and get us off of this wretched beach. If Achilles says that his mother, an _immortal being_ , has told him that other _immortal beings_ are preventing us from reaching Troy, I'd think he ought to listen." His voice became more and more clipped as he went on, ending at a scolding tone familiar from the countless times it had been directed at him for neglecting some banal household chore.

"Weeks ago, I asked for the war's start never to arrive," Wonshik murmured, the mood shifting abruptly as the pair of men sank down onto the sandy shore. Achilles floated in the distance. "And last night, before Achilles returned, I had another dream. More vivid than the last."

Hongbin gestured for Wonshik to continue. "Hades _Polyxenos_ stood in front of Achilles's tent—at Troy, still. He held out his hand again, and I...this time, I took it. I couldn't help myself." He snatched up Hongbin's hand, twining their fingers together intimately. "He held my hand. He brought it to his lips." Wonshik's teeth came out to worry at his lower lip. "Before his lips touched my skin, I woke up. Paralyzed and soaked in sweat. But, oddly, not hot."

"How fortunate for you," Hongbin needled, freeing his hand from the heat of Wonshik's. "Your portentous dreams about the god of death have some use, after all." Wonshik did not seem diverted by Hongbin's wit, and so he veered away from the ominous topic. "You were going to explain to me how you came to Phthia."

Wonshik launched, then, into the tale of his childhood—his simple mother, his scornful father, the disappointment of rejection at Helen's betrothal. He'd killed another boy in a dispute over a game, by some twist of fate, and his father had banished him to be fostered at Phthia, in the house of Peleus. It was there that he had become close to Achilles. Wonshik told it briefly, without emotion, and Hongbin had the sense that Wonshik could tell it no other way—that he would break if he tried.

In turn, Hongbin spoke of Phylace, of the husband he'd left behind. The fat tabby cat and the long table in the drawing room. The shelf on which Hakyeon placed their gilded laurels, side-by-side. He caught Wonshik's eyes drifting toward Achilles more than once, deep regret in his gaze.

"It is too hot now for any of that," Hongbin declared, finally, looking up into the cloudless sky. Wonshik seemed to snap out of a previous trance, lost in thought. "I need to make sure that Podarces and my men are not fighting with the Locrians again. The heat has made their tempers short." He stood, brushing sand off of himself. "Come with me?"

"Thank you, but no," Wonshik murmured. "I need to speak with Achilles, alone." As if hearing his name spoken, Achilles rose from the sea, standing naked, water sluicing down his pale torso. He remained unburnt by the sun.

Hongbin left Wonshik to his own devices, seeing to his responsibilities.

***

It must have been a product of his earlier conversation with Wonshik, Hongbin mused. Or would have, were he not otherwise engaged.

Hongbin's back was curiously painless as he arched into his own touch, the heat no longer oppressive. He pictured Hakyeon's body, sliding sultrily along his own, lips trailing after hands as Hakyeon's mouth worked him over. Hakyeon was a teasing lover, when he had time on his side; he would press soft kisses around Hongbin's thighs, his abdomen, the creases of his hips, before finally playing at taking Hongbin into his mouth.

Hakyeon's sweat-damp hair, his wicked tongue, his wiry strength, pushing Hongbin's hips to the bed as Hakyeon devoured him. Arousal swept through Hongbin and he moved his hand over his own cock faster in the still air, breath coming in quick, quiet gasps.

His focus shifted, to what he wished to do to Hakyeon when they were reunited, mapping the changes in Hakyeon over the decade apart, first with his hands, following with his tongue, teeth, and then finally, _finally_ sinking his cock into his husband. Urgently, roughly the first time, and then slower, drawing out their pleasure, reducing Hakyeon to a pliant, sobbing wreck. Oh, yes, he would relish every moment. They would take a week, perhaps, for only themselves, for their passion.

Hongbin writhed under his own hand and shuddered, spilling messily onto the bare skin of his stomach. He panted shallowly as he returned to himself, feeling strangely distant from the reality of his situation as he wiped himself off with a discarded, sweat-soaked blanket and rolled over, falling into deep sleep.

***

"You're meddling," Sanghyuk mumbled against Jaehwan's neck, dragging his teeth across the delicate skin there. His hands roamed over Jaehwan's naked front, his cock nestled in the cleft between Jaehwan's buttocks. 

Jaehwan sighed, leaning into the touch, head resting on Sanghyuk's shoulder. "I am _not_. Simply...reminding him. Men need to know what they suffer for. _Don't—_ " he cut himself off at a roll of Sanghyuk's hips, oiled-up cock rubbing slickly across Jaehwan's entrance, "—tease me, if you're just going to— _oh._ " Jaehwan's mouth pulled into an indulgent smile as Sanghyuk pushed into him, holding Jaehwan still, stuffed full with Sanghyuk.

"The Greek ships have no wind," Jaehwan said breathily, conversationally. "I've made no change to the course of things. I just...cooled the prince off a little. Fate's design is entirely safe."

The conversation ended when Jaehwan tilted his hips just so, and Sanghyuk pulled him down, still hanging on Sanghyuk’s cock, onto the sumptuous bed of the god of desire.

***

A small contingent of priests had come with the Argives to Aulis. This was not unusual or new; even in the thick of war, funerals must be held, proper burials seen to. For this, then, men who devoted themselves to religion were best, and thus they had come to Aulis. None of them had foreseen the unrelenting doldrums, now gone on for two months.

Of the Argive priests, a man called Calchas held the best repute in camp. He was known as a man of dignity and piety, but also of unwavering loyalty to Greece and to Agamemnon. Calchas counted among his gifts one from Apollo himself, god of augury, for interpreting the flight of birds to ascertain the future. Calchas had not been forewarned of the ceaseless heat and interminable days stranded on Aulis, looking out over the unperturbed sea.

It was to Calchas, Wonshik told Hongbin, as he, Achilles, and Wonshik sat in Achilles's tent inventing more and more intricate word games, that Agamemnon had finally gone. The king of Mycenae had taken Calchas into confidence, met with him privately, and soon, hopefully, the reason for the gods' waylaying of the Greek fleet would be made clear.

Achilles lounged, limbs sprawled across the enclosed space, his head pillowed on Wonshik's thigh. His eyes were closed; he sighed through his nose. "I told Atreides two months ago that the gods were keeping us here to bake alive. Only now does he go to his weaselly seer." Hongbin ran his fingers over the delicate bones of Achilles's ankle, within easy reach, to show that he had heard.

Over the days, bled into weeks and now months, spent on Aulis with Achilles and Wonshik, Hongbin had grown accustomed to Achilles's particular brand of bluntness. When one first encountered it, Achilles's alarming frankness impressed itself as arrogance. In actuality, it was not so—Achilles had simply never learned the gentle tact which pervaded Wonshik's every action, or the decorum Hongbin had been forced into when he ascended to the throne of Phylace beside Hakyeon.

"Perhaps Calchas will be able to tell us _which god_ we've managed to so offend," Hongbin carped, and Achilles's foot twitched contrarily in Hongbin's grip. Wonshik's hand shot down to pinch Achilles's pectoral in rebuke. Achilles batted him away with the languid movements of someone who would be inspired to physical conflict, were he not sweating out all of his energy just to survive. They fell silent again, until Achilles broke in.

"I've forgotten what word we used for _xi_ , so I guess I've lost the word game." Wonshik huffed out a low laugh, jostling Achilles a bit. Hongbin caught the adoration Achilles leveled on Wonshik as he smiled, stretching his arms up over his head and twisting his torso to loosen his shoulders.

Footsteps sounded from outside the tent, and two silhouettes outlined by the pressing sunlight appeared through the thin cloth door. " _Aristos Achaion_ ," came one voice, and another, Podarces, called, "Phylacides. Prince Hongbin." Hongbin exchanged a resigned glance with first Achilles, then Wonshik as he relinquished Achilles's ankle and stood, brushing himself off and draping his perizoma about his waist for some semblance of modesty.

"Enter," Achilles responded, and the cloth was drawn aside to reveal Automedon, the Phthian charioteer, alongside Podarces, Hongbin's head officer.

"Pelides, Phylacides, Menoitiades—" Automedon addressed Wonshik, who scrambled to cover his own nakedness. "There is news regarding our situation from Calchas, and Agamemnon has called an assembly in the agora so that he may announce it to the entire force." Automedon averted his eyes demurely as Wonshik stood, now wrapped uncouthly in Achilles's radiant purple himation _._ Podarces simply angled a questioning look at Hongbin, who gestured slightly in dismissal, aware all at once of what the camp thought of the three of them, sequestered together in a pile of sweaty noble limbs.

Hongbin pulled his cloth belt a bit tighter around himself. "We'll make our way to the agorapromptly, Podarces, Automedon. Thank you." There was no mistaking the relief in their eyes as they turned to leave, presumably to assemble at the agorathemselves.

Word reached them as they reached the marketplace. Calchas believed it was the goddess Artemis who kept them at Aulis—he did not give a reason. His proposed remedy was the customary one, libations poured and livestock slaughtered in appropriately pious quantities. Agamemnon took the floor to announce that his daughter, Iphigenia, would soon arrive from Mycenae, with her mother and brother, to preside over the sacrifice. She was a priestess of the goddess Artemis, a virgin, the youngest ever appointed to the office, and her presence would bode well for the Greek petition to release the winds.

Achilles was called away after this, personally, by Agamemnon. Wonshik, his brow cast over with a troubled expression, accompanied Hongbin back to Achilles's tent, waiting with bated breath for Achilles's return with further news.

At nightfall, when Wonshik and Hongbin had fallen amiably quiet, passing a decanter of well-watered wine back and forth between them, Achilles strode into the tent, visibly agitated.

"He means to marry her to me," he said without preamble, and Wonshik's slack expression tightened with concern. He rolled to his feet, reaching out for Achilles, who shrugged off Wonshik's hands and paced around the tent with long, swift strides. "He means to marry the priestess to me. For us to have a single night together. A proper wedding night, to appease Artemis."

Hongbin narrowed his eyes, wheels turning in his mind as Achilles continued his censure. "He has sown nothing but conflict between the Myrmidons and the Mycenaeans, he and the king of Ithaca, and—"

"It would be a wise move toward the end of conflict," Wonshik cut in, placid voice rumbling under Achilles's distraught one. "Were you not already married. As Odysseus knows." The weight of history resounded behind Wonshik's simple declaration.

Hongbin chose the beat of silence after Wonshik finished speaking to say his own piece. "And I can't imagine that the marriage of one of her virgin priestesses will please Artemis, the _virgin_ goddess. She presides over the union of man and woman, but seldom do the stories of raped priestesses end well for those seizing them."

There were volumes unspoken in the way Achilles suddenly stopped his circuit of the tent, allowing Wonshik to pull him into a close embrace. When Hongbin caught sight of the shimmering tears on Achilles's cheeks, he cast a pointed look at Wonshik before gathering his scant clothing and returning to his own quarters for the night.

***

Hongbin had become frighteningly accustomed to Wonshik's late-night intrusions into his tent. He wrested himself away from dream-Hakyeon, who'd been wielding a weaponized tabby cat at Hongbin for failing to ask a servant to replace their bedclothes, and into wakefulness as Wonshik slid between the remaining layers of Hongbin's bedroll.

"You're very warm," Hongbin murmured as Wonshik's dark eyes met his, their bodies otherwise distant from one another.

"I—" Wonshik's breath shattered as he squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to dispel another nightmare. "I cannot go on like this, Hongbin."

Realization came to Hongbin in pieces—Wonshik was fresh from sleep, yes, but he smelled of sandalwood, pomegranate, and the sea. Like Achilles, and like sex, sweat and musk. On the eve of Achilles's wedding to Iphigenia, Wonshik had lain with him, and then he had dreamt of the god of death.

Wonshik shuddered in the darkness, breaking into cold sweat even in the sweltering heat. "Tell me," Hongbin urged, and Wonshik took another deep, steadying breath.

"There is a prophecy about Achilles," Wonshik began. "He will die at Troy. He will receive glory and fame, but he will die. His mother says that Hector will die before him." Hector, the mightiest of the Trojan warriors. "And before Hector, the best of the Myrmidons. _Aristos Phthion._ " Wonshik paused, gathering his thoughts, breathing shakily. _"_ Until now, Achilles and I have made light of it."

Hongbin wanted to prompt Wonshik further, to immediately reach the heart of Wonshik's distress. He did not.

After a time, Wonshik spoke, voice soft and thoughtful as if he were merely wondering about some distant memory. "I stood at the side of Hades, outside the diamond gate. I could see his monstrous dog guarding it." A beat. "And his hand was not cold in mine." Wonshik closed his eyes again, and Hongbin pulled his head forward to rest their brows together, a gesture which had always comforted Hakyeon. "Hades spoke. _Chaíre, ariston Phthion._ '" _Welcome, best of the Phthians._

***

Iphigenia was beautiful, Hongbin thought, as she and her retinue, alongside Agamemnon's own wife and son, arrived at camp. She was young, barely ripe for marriage at fourteen, with long, willowy limbs and soft brown eyes. As she looked on Achilles, girlish, demure trepidation and desire, its acquaintance newly made, shone in them. Iphigenia came to Achilles unwed, pledged to Artemis as a virgin. She would not stay that way.

She would be paraded into the marketplace, their makeshift agora, for her wedding to Achilles. Every custom would be observed; he would not leave the side of the raised dais, and she would make her way in a chariot to the raised wooden platform on which Agamemnon had only days ago detailed his plans.

On the day of the wedding, men thronged to the agora to attend, some out of intrigue, some thirsting for the sight of a woman after a long three months away from their wives at home. They all sweated together in a huge, humid mass, the agora taking on the scent of unwashed men and desperation. Let the marriage please the goddess, as marriages had always pleased her, and let it bring the winds. They had tarried long enough at Aulis.

Hongbin watched on, a pit of dread heavy in his stomach, as Achilles made his way to one side to the dais. Wonshik stood at Hongbin's right shoulder, Podarces at his left. Wonshik was nearly vibrating on the spot, conflict clear in every line of his body as the chariot rumbled up, up the aisle. Agamemnon, Menelaus, Clytemnestra, and Orestes stood behind the dais, the king of Ithaca barely separated from them, next to the priest Calchas. Diomedes, king of Argos, completed the line of generals, his face a blank mask.

When Hongbin recalled the wedding later, it was only in pieces.

The flash of ankle as Iphigenia stepped out of the chariot, stumbling. The flash of Achilles's golden hair as he lunged forward to catch her.

Diomedes and Agamemnon were not faster than Achilles, but they were ready. He reached Iphigenia first, but Diomedes lashed out to shove him away, arm looping around the girl's neck as he dragged her backward. Agamemnon was the last to reach her.

His knife flashed in the sun as he brought it down. The cut was clean.

Her windpipe had been cut as Agamemnon slashed her throat. She could not scream as she died. Iphigenia fell to her knees, blood burbling quietly down her white dress. It stained her knees crimson before spilling onto the altar. Her entire front was stained with her own life, bleeding out of her as her body thrashed in the arms of Diomedes, her father's hands on her shoulders as he crouched. His face remained unmoved as he watched his daughter's death.

Eternity played out within a few brief moments. Hongbin clutched at Wonshik's hand.

The entirety of her life, condensed down to no more than five minutes. How quickly the end could approach, the victim entirely unaware. The _moirai_ ceased weaving for no one.

"The goddess is appeased," Agamemnon's voice rang out as he stood, hands sticky with his daughter's blood.

Slowly, and then all at once, the murmurs of outrage grew into cries of fear and anger. The Greeks did not sacrifice humans. They did not sacrifice their own kin. There would be consequences, for Mycenae, for all of Greece. Agamemnon did not speak again, but turned, gathered his party, and quit the scene.

Achilles stood over her body, his chiton stained with spatters of red. The initial cut had resulted in a messy spray of gore, the knife moving in an arc, the way one would kill any ritual sacrifice. Human blood marred Achilles's pale face, a few drops on his cheek.

Wonshik lurched forward, arms outstretched as he made to go to Achilles, whose face lowered into his hands as he stood otherwise still, shocked. Hongbin pulled in a laborious breath, the smell of sweat and iron and salt overpowering as men jostled and cried out.

And in all of the panic and terror at the gods' retribution, Hongbin felt the air stir into a gentle breeze.

***

Agamemnon called them all back to the marketplace, once the commotion settled. The goddess, discontent with the intentions of the army, required payment in advance. Blood for blood. For such waste laid to Troy as they meant to enact, cattle would not suffice. Human blood, then, from one important to the leader of the expedition.

The story Agamemnon wove, Odysseus and Diomedes at his side, was that she had agreed. Not only agreed, but been excited. The spark in her eyes had not been desire for Achilles, but devotion to the essential duty she would carry out for Greece.

The men burned her body that night, cypress smoke and the acrid smell of burning flesh never casting a pall over the celebration of the winds' return. Agamemnon regaled the men of all Greece with wine and merriment. Tomorrow, they would sail for Troy. The war for Helen and the honor of Sparta, of Greece, would finally commence, after three months of static waiting.

Dread finally returned to Hongbin as he sat in his tent. He had not touched the cursed wine of Agamemnon's feast, but instead gone to Achilles's tent, where he had glimpsed Wonshik and Achilles. Achilles had trembled in Wonshik's arms, looking, for the first time since Hongbin had known him, all too human. Hongbin's gut clenched, sympathy and agony pulsing through him hotly as he fled to his own tent.

_Hakyeon_ , he prayed as tears streaked down his face. _Please, let him survive. Let me return to him_. He entreated the gods of love, of marriage and life and death and fate, _Fate_ , the three sisters who heard no prayer and wove untiringly until their piece was done. Legend held that the _moirai_ sprang into being beside the _Erinyes_ , the dread Furies who punished men for crimes outside the natural order. They would fall upon the house of Atreus for Agamemnon's evil deed today.

Hongbin feared the loneliness of his rough bedroll, the darkness outside, the ululating screams of celebration. All around him, circumstance pressed in, unrelenting. He could not breathe. He could not think, except of the vivid image of Hakyeon, alone in the throne room, ruling as he had since their marriage, but without Hongbin at his side.

***

Jaehwan's hand was light on Sanghyuk's arm as his brow furrowed. "Please," he whispered. "Not yet." Sanghyuk, halfway sitting up already, rolled back toward Jaehwan, tangling their legs together among the exotic trappings of Jaehwan's bed. He tugged Jaehwan against him, pulled his face to Sanghyuk's shoulder as they lay together.

He felt small in Sanghyuk's arms, powerless. Here, in Jaehwan's own quarters, this struck unease into Sanghyuk. Jaehwan was _the_ force of nature, sex and love and desire and passion, and now, he seemed _frail_. Sanghyuk closed his eyes, held Jaehwan a bit closer.

"Not yet, but soon," he allowed. Jaehwan exhaled against his bare chest.

"Not yet, but soon." Jaehwan's agreement no longer sounded grudging; instead, resignation now drew his voice tight. The tenuous peace could break at any moment. They did not kiss, did not move against one another.

Sanghyuk held Jaehwan for as long as he could before he stood, donning his chiton and his winged sandals, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and patting himself into place. Jaehwan did not bid him farewell with a kiss and a smile, as he often did—he lay in bed, still, staring vacantly at Sanghyuk's deserted pillow.

As he flew from Olympus, Sanghyuk became aware of the course neatly laid out for him by the kindly fates. The Greek fleet had finally made port at Lemnos. It would not be long now until they reached Troy, burning to begin their ten-year campaign. They would reach Tenedos the next day, and then, on the ninth day since their departure from Aulis, the Greeks would breach Trojan shores.

***

Three collisions. As the ships juddered into line, preparing to sail from Tenedos, there were three collisions. Every kingdom wished to be the first to light on Trojan soil. Oars chipped and splintered as the ranks closed.

Hongbin had not seen Wonshik in the eight days since they had sailed from Aulis on separate ships, Wonshik returning to his Myrmidons and Hongbin at the head of the Phylacian fleet, Podarces at his left. Hongbin spared a thought for his comrade—no, friend now—and sent up a small prayer that his dreams eased, as they sailed for Troy.

The Argives and the Myrmidons set the pace for the great line of ships, commanded by Agamemnon to go slowly, to hold to the ranks. He wished to take the Trojans by surprise, and to have an easy victory by ambush at the outset. Troy gradually came into view; mountains, trees, and verdant land rolled over the horizon. A ship's length ahead of him, Hongbin could just make out Achilles, his spear tossed up and down in one hand as they made their slow way to the beat of drums and the shouted orders of coxswains.

Something was amiss. The shores of Troy seemed to shimmer. As they grew nearer, Hongbin heard the bellow of a horn from somewhere within the fleet, and he understood.

The shores of Troy shimmered because they were teeming with men.

_Good_ , Hongbin thought, hazily recalling his dream, shared with Hakyeon in the dead of night. _It was only a dream_. He felt the unaccustomed battle lust rip through him again, all at once. Dark crimson frothed on the beach, the colors of the house of Priam, and a racing chariot wound through their ranks. The man captaining it was _mighty_ , his bearing bringing Achilles to mind, the first day Hongbin had seen him. The charioteer held himself as if he were protected by the gods.

This was Hector, then, destined to die after Achilles. Mightiest of the Trojans. He leapt from his chariot and paced the ranks of his men, shouting orders. Hongbin saw arrows nocked and aimed, but the Greek ships were out of reach of the bowmen for now. Another shout on the shore, and spears were hoisted. The tide pulled them inexorably in. Podarces raced starboard, yelling pleas for orders from Agamemnon to weigh anchor. There were none.

Hector made his way up the beach, to the part of his army directly in front of Hongbin. More shouting. Far down the line of ships, a bowman drew—they were still out of reach, and his arrow would not hit—and suddenly hit the sand, a spear shaft protruding from his torso. The spear had flown unnaturally far. It could only have been thrown by Achilles's arm.

First blood. Horns screamed from all directions now, celebration—first blood to the Greeks, and all the blood after. Hongbin screamed with them, thirsty for glory, for the renown of victory over Troy; for who could stand in the way of the Greeks, the chosen people of the Olympian gods? For Helen! For Sparta, and Hellas, wronged, seeking retribution after being slighted in the eyes of all men.

Another spear from Achilles, and another man fell on the shore. Arrows flew on both sides. Chaos took hold, and the ships jostled for position at the front of the line, their captains zealous and eager. Hongbin's hand fell to the sword at his side, itching to draw it. He would _win_. He would _win_.

***

Sanghyuk stood at Hongbin's right shoulder, at the prow of the Phylacian flagship. He gazed out past Hongbin, spotting Hector. He slid his gaze down, across, to where Hongbin's hand hovered over his short, barely-used sword. 

Sanghyuk placed his hand, fingers spread, between Hongbin's shoulder blades.

Sanghyuk _pushed_.

***

_For Hakyeon,_ Hongbin thought fervently as he leapt, laughing, from the prow of the flagship. His legs shook violently as his feet hit water, and he swam.

His feet hit sand and he stood, facing down a sea of crimson. He waded toward the Trojan army, the hilt of his sword clutched in his hand.

Water dripped from his clothes in sheets. He drew his sword.

***

Wonshik saw Hector's spear. He saw Hongbin fall, pierced clean through his chest. He saw Hongbin gasp for breath, choking on air, before going still. The surf around him ran red.

***

Somewhere deep within Taekwoon’s kingdom, a thread was cut.

***

ACT II _finis_


	4. Interlude: The God of Death

The god of death is beautiful. 

He wears a royal blue chiton under his himation, pitch-black and giving off no sheen as fabric should. The chiton drapes regally to his ankles, never touching the ground below his gold-sandaled feet.

He does not speak, but Wonshik knows him viscerally. Hades, _Aidoneus_ , the ruler of the dead. Wonshik knows him by his pale, luminous skin, by his jet-black hair falling nearly over his eyes. He looks like he has not seen the sun since the beginning of the world—like the moon has soaked into his flesh, suffusing it with frigid light.

He stands amid a pile of the remnants of war: an overturned chariot, pieces of armor. Wonshik glances at them for a moment, ripping his eyes away from the god before him. The armor is intimately familiar to him, now that he has spent the past months carefully strapping it on. 

It belongs to Achilles.

All at once, Wonshik's blood turns to ice in his veins. He stares again, transfixed, at Hades _Polyxenos_. He wants to _speak_ , to demand some explanation of the scene, of the overturned chariot and Achilles's armor strewn around it. 

It is not that his throat cannot form sound. It is that he cannot try. Wonshik's voice is unimportant here, and thus it does not exist. Only he, Hades, and the discarded trappings of war.

Wonshik's heart thaws and begins to race as the god's eyes meet his. They are dark, all pupil, inhuman. Some silent storm lies behind them, and Wonshik does not care to know its nature. 

The air is still when Hades _Polyxenos_ slowly raises his hand ceremoniously, palm up, offering it to Wonshik. 

Horror sluices through Wonshik. _The god of death, offering his hand._ Dreams are augurs of the future, and he is now marked indelibly. _Wake up_ , he begs himself, before Hades shake his head negligibly, the motion barely noticeable.

As quickly as it had arrived, the fear leaves Wonshik, replaced by eerie calm. He turns his gaze briefly from Hades's eyes to his hand, still outstretched in offering. He looks up, and _now_ he sees Hades for his true nature, the savior of the dead, the host of many, the one who leads men's souls quietly into eternity. 

_The consoler_. Inhumanly beautiful, composed of darkness where Achilles is made of light. Wonshik's breath is stolen away as he continues to drink in the cold elegance of the Lord of the Dead. He becomes acutely aware of his own flesh, marred with scars, tanned by years' worth of long days in the sun. All too human. 

Before Wonshik entirely knows the consequences, his hand lifts from his side as if to take Hades's. 

***

Wonshik wakes up in Achilles's tent, drenched in sweat, breathing like a man just saved from drowning. He cannot control the panicked beating of his heart any more than he can the deep gasping breaths. Next to him, Achilles stirs.

"Wonshik?" he slurs, one pale limb groping blindly for Wonshik. 

"I'm just too hot, Achilles. Go back to sleep. I'll return once I've gotten some air." Achilles, accustomed to this habit of Wonshik's, rolls over, mumbling sleepy words of affection.

For a while, Wonshik does exactly that, pacing the Myrmidon camp in the balmy night air, deep in thought. Perturbed. Hades himself appearing in Wonshik's dreams cannot bode well. 

His feet turn toward the Phylacian camp. His body thrums with nervousness, a droning low note of fear. He has confided his dread of the coming war to the prince of Phylace already. 

What, then, is one prophetic nightmare?

***

The god of death is coldly beautiful. He is beautiful. He is not cold.

They stand, this time, outside of Achilles's tent. Its colors have faded with age and wear. The verdant land of Troy seems dreary in comparison to the vivid _presence_ of Hades. 

He does not resist the pull of fate, now. He allows it to carry him toward the tent, toward Hades, standing still, expression neutral. He lifts his hand, his fingers tapered and delicate, pale as the rest of him. 

Wonshik comes to a stop within easy reach. He hesitates only for a moment before placing his hand in that of Hades, _Polyxenos_ , lord of the underworld. 

Images tear through him, vivid as the god before him. _Eros, the god of love, his face tearstained and wrathful. Orpheus, the fabled lyrist, turning to look over his shoulder, falling to his knees as his beloved Eurydice descended back into the Elysian fields. Eros again, lips forming the words_ I owe you a debt _. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, spelled to bring together two souls in passionate love._

_Eros, thrusting his arrow neatly between Hades's ribs before storming away, another arrow clutched in his fist, bow slung across his back._

_Hades, falling to his knees, excruciating pain spilling into his blank expression like ink over paper._

Later, Wonshik will tell Hongbin that he awoke before Hades's lips touched his flesh. 

This will be a lie. 

Hades's lips press to the back of Wonshik's hand reverently. His dark eyelashes fall to brush his cheeks. His lips are warm and alive on Wonshik's skin for the lingering moment of his kiss.

He parts from Wonshik's hand, seeking Wonshik's eyes with his own. The storm behind them has intensified, and Wonshik _knows_ , as he knows the true nature of Hades, the nature of his inner torment. Eternal death, in love with fleeting life. 

All of Hades's motions have been slow, deliberate, so as not to alarm Wonshik. Wonshik is the opposite, tugging at Hades's hand in his sharply. He cups Hades's jaw with his free hand. This close, he can see that they are of a height as he tilts his head, sliding their lips together.

The moment the Lord of the Dead kisses him back, wordless ardor in his every movement, is the moment Wonshik accepts his own fate.

***

The nights at Aulis have been windless and unfailingly hot. When Wonshik wakes abruptly, paralyzed, he is drenched in sweat. He feels cool, his skin clammy.

Achilles has returned from his meeting with Thetis. He sleeps fitfully next to Wonshik, sometimes reaching out for Wonshik, half-waking, seeming to remember himself, and falling still once again. Wonshik watches him until his eyes grow heavy, and he feels phantom fingertips on his eyelids, pulling him down into black, dreamless sleep.

***

At the beach the next day, under the caustic sun, Wonshik relates his dream to Hongbin in hushed tones, admitting his fear that he has stalled the winds for the two weeks they have been stranded. He _begged_ the gods not to let the war commence; at the time, he had wanted nothing more than to live out his days by Achilles' side. 

Hongbin listens, and he dismisses Wonshik's worries with scathing remarks about the king of Mycenae. He deflects further discussion, moving on to the story of Wonshik's past, how he came to Phthia and to Achilles. Wonshik tells it all without passion; where memories of Achilles have inspired devotion before, they now seem washed out, diluted by the passage of time. He wonders when his heart stopped leaping at Achilles's touch, when intrigue faded to indulgence and then simply indifference. Wonshik would die for Achilles. He would not live for him.

Too late, Wonshik notices the concern writ large over Hongbin's face. He stops his tale, asks after Hongbin's husband. Pulls his worries into himself to be dissected and analyzed later.

As Hongbin speaks, his deep love for Hakyeon, the Iolcan prince, radiates warmly from him. _This_ is what Achilles wishes from Wonshik, and what Wonshik cannot give. He does not know, even, if he is capable.

Unbidden, the image of Hades springs to his mind. Wonshik jealously hoards their kisses and caresses, the pressure of Hades's fingers tightening on Wonshik's hand. He could have snapped the bones as easily as the wings of a songbird; he did not, merely held on, clinging to Wonshik as Wonshik deepened the kiss. It had not been nearly enough. Wonshik _needed_ Hades, then, and cursed wakefulness had robbed him of finding what he sought.

His gaze strays to Achilles, floating on his back in the sea, impervious to the sun. _Hades, his himation drawing in the light around it_. Achilles, wading inland, glittering streams of water sliding off of his skin. _Hades, on his knees, an arrow lodged in his heart, ichor bleeding out of him_. 

"It is too hot now for any of that," Hongbin declares abruptly, when he finishes speaking. "I need to make sure that Podarces and my men are not fighting with the Locrians again. The heat has made their tempers short." He stands and brushes off the sand which clings to his skin and chiton. "Come with me?"

Wonshik shakes his head to clear it of visions of the Lord of the Dead. "Thank you, but no," Wonshik murmurs. "I need to speak with Achilles, alone." Achilles rises from the sea again. His tawny eyes fix on Wonshik, the confusion on his face clear even at this distance. Hongbin says something in acquiescence and leaves, walking briskly toward the Phylacian camp.

Achilles jogs toward Wonshik and plops down on the sand next to Wonshik, the movement more graceful than it should be. Sand sticks to his bare skin—he does not care, it will not abrade his flesh like it would Wonshik's. 

"Agamemnon will not listen," Achilles says quietly. "Two weeks without wind, and he will not listen to me. To my _mother._ Even if he holds some grudge against me, he... I am at a loss."

"Perhaps he thinks she is lying, to protect you. To keep you safe from the war."

Achilles scoffs. "I cannot win glory and fame if I don't go to war. Agamemnon is a stubborn jackass. It's as simple as that." He turns to Wonshik, leaning forward slightly to look him in the face. "Why did you send Hongbin away?"

"Because I wanted to speak to you." 

"Oh?" Achilles cups his chin in one hand, resting it on his knee. 

Wonshik sighs, bracing himself. "The night after Agathos's feast—do you remember?" He allows a pause to stretch between them as they both recall it. Achilles, drunk, stumbling into Wonshik's bed. His clumsy touch, batted away by gentle hands until Achilles, defeated, fell into drugged sleep. 

Achilles hums in affirmation, and Wonshik continues. "I prayed for the war's delay. I thought of the bloodshed, the loss of life, and I begged the gods to hold off." He shuts his eyes against the red-hot embarrassment flushing his cheeks. "I—"

He means to tell Achilles of his dreams, the god of death appearing to him amid Achilles's abandoned armor. The words will not leave his throat, and he clears it impatiently. He does not _want_ to tell Achilles, he realizes. He wants one thing, _one thing_ , all to himself. He has spent his entire adolescence as an extension of _aristos Achaion_ , mentioned only as an afterthought. 

This _one thing,_ waking dreams of Hades, _Wonshik_ has finally received. Not Wonshik, Menoitiades, the companion of Achilles Pelides, _aristos Achaion,_ but simply Wonshik.

"I worry that I caused the winds to stop," Wonshik tells Achilles instead. "I fear we'll be stuck at Aulis for a decade, and some awful turn of fate will make the prophecy about your death true."

Achilles makes to twine his fingers with Wonshik's, and Wonshik pulls his hand away distractedly. Delicate hurt flits over Achilles's face, and he turns his gaze to the sea. "You didn't cause the winds to stop, Wonshik. You are one man, and no one man is that powerful."

***

Two months pass. The Greek fleet remains at Aulis. Troy is no closer today than it has been since Menelaus's call to arms.

Finally, Agamemnon consults his priest. Artemis, he says, keeps them here. She demands sacrifice. She will have it.

Achilles is called away by Agamemnon, and Wonshik returns to his tent with Hongbin, waiting there for him. Hongbin has proven to be a good friend to Wonshik, he muses as they pass a decanter of wine between themselves silently. 

When Achilles enters the tent, he is shaken. He is to marry Iphigenia. Wonshik's brow furrows—Achilles is already married. His child, likely already in the world, is a legitimate one. Hongbin voices objection to the rape of the priestess. 

Achilles comes to a dead stop in the middle of the tent. Wonshik reaches out, pulling him close, aiming to comfort. He exchanges a fraught glance with Hongbin as Hongbin quits the scene. 

Wonshik cannot deny Achilles, tonight, not when Achilles's cheeks are bright with tears, sparkling with watered-down ichor. He sinks into the familiarity of Achilles, his lips and his soft hands, the way they move gently together, breath short in the quiet air. He runs his hand through Achilles's hair, his lips over the exquisite jawline. Perhaps Achilles was not made to be eternal, but he was made by a goddess all the same.

Time is a fickle thing. Achilles lies next to Wonshik, fucked-out and weary, drowsing peacefully. The whole span of their lovemaking condenses down to the moment Achilles had come undone in Wonshik's arms. It seems shorter, somehow, than the fleeting moments he has spent in death's embrace, taking what he saw fit. 

It seems longer, too, than the two months that have elapsed since Wonshik last dreamed of Hades. Achilles's pleasure stretches out to fill the empty time, and Wonshik pushes a single golden curl from his forehead, tucking it behind Achilles's ear as he, too, succumbs to sleep.

***

The gates of the underworld are made of diamond and onyx. They glitter with the same frozen beauty that everything does, here. 

They have been facing one another every time they have met before. Now, Wonshik stands by Hades' side, staring up at the majestic entrance to the land of the dead. 

He reaches out to twine their fingers together without looking away, shifting closer to Hades unconsciously. He does not need to glance over to know Hades is eyeing the gates with a mixture of eagerness, fondness, and trepidation. 

Wonshik, absurdly, wants to break the still air with movement, wants to draw Hades in and kiss him again, feel his warm skin, smooth like sculpted marble and just as eternal. Wonshik is determined to see if Hades flushes in pleasure, if the ichor that rushes to his face tinges his cheeks delicately pink. 

He breaks out of his own reverie, casting a glance to his left. Hades meets his gaze and lifts his free hand, gesturing to the diamond gates. "Welcome, _ariston Phthion._ "

_Ariston Phthion_. Wonshik's blood, thrumming with anticipation, stops in his veins. 

Bizarrely, his first thought is that Hades's voice is not what he expected; rather, it is feathery and soft, almost hypnotic. 

The oft-repeated prophecies of the Trojan War clutch at his heart as the words come, unfeeling, to his mind. Sudden dread fills him— _aristos Phthion_ , fated to die before Hector. The death of _aristos Phthion_ will become the impelling force behind Hector's death by Achilles's spear. In taking Hector's life, Achilles will end his own. Achilles and Wonshik have _laughed_ at it—how could the best of the Greeks and the best of the Phthians not be one and the same? The prophecies must be false, they said, because Achilles cannot die twice. 

They were not wrong. Achilles cannot die twice, because Wonshik is _aristos Phthion_.

And here Wonshik stands, hand in hand with his soul's host, greeted tenderly at the gates of hell. 

Emotions whirl through him like the twin monsters of the Sicilian strait—anger, hot and fast, desperation, sadness, and finally just the earnest need to reach out, to kiss the Lord of Death and reassure him that all is well. Hades is known as _Agetes,_ not _Moiragetes_ ; he is a conductor, a navigator. He does not lead the fates. 

"I am sorry," Hades whispers, as Wonshik's fingers find the angle of his jaw, turning Hades's face to his own. "Wonshik."

Wonshik rests his brow against Hades's. For a moment, he breathes. Hades smells of pomegranate and heady libatory wine, poured for him though he is unmoved. " _Eubouleus_ ," Wonshik whispers back hoarsely. _Consoler_ , _he of good counsel_. " _Zeus Cthonios._ " _Earthly Zeus._

He tips his head enough to meet Hades's lips in a kiss, chaste, tinged with pain. Hades's free hand cups the nape of Wonshik's neck tenderly, his pale brow creased with sympathy. When they part, they remain connected there, scant inches apart.

"To you," Hades breathes, "I am called by my true name." He does not say it, but Wonshik knows it all the same.

_Taekwoon_ , Wonshik sighs, pulling the Lord of the Dead in, kissing him deeply now. Passion tugs at Wonshik, and he nearly does not recognize it; he has never yearned for someone at his very core. 

As Wonshik allows the feeling to flood him, every burden he carries now, as _aristos Phthion,_ fades into a dull ache. He sees flashes of memory, both his own and not, through the haze of time. _Hongbin's dimpled smile, arm around the waist of a man who can only be Hakyeon of Iolcus as they stand at the diamond gates_. _Achilles, his face contorted in pain and rage, shimmering tears wetting Wonshik's flesh as he holds Wonshik's lifeless body in his arms. Hector of Troy, his corpse mangled and tied to a chariot. Achilles, once more, laid out on a pyre, no less beautiful in death than he was in life._

As he moves against Taekwoon, the king of this world of gloom and darkness and ever-weaving Fate, Wonshik feels at peace.


	5. Atropos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that the number of chapters has changed - the seventh will be a short epilogue, so I won't count it in the plot. For all intents and purposes, we're almost done.
> 
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> 
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ACT III: ATROPOS

***

The messenger Hakyeon sent to Aulis had been gone three months.

On the first day, Hakyeon pressed his face into the pillow where Hongbin slept and breathed in. Even after these long months, it smelled like the perfumed oil which kept Hongbin's gentle curls sleek, and it smelled like Hakyeon. The scent was not unfamiliar; it permeated every inch of this room. Here, though, it was more concentrated. 

He rose from the bed, called his servants to attend him. He lifted only one of the golden circlets from its shelf as he prepared for his daily routine of strict household management. Phylace had to continue running as smoothly as it ever had, even with the whole of Greece going to war at Troy. 

Even with its rightful prince going to war at Troy, surrounded by vengeful kings.

Sometime in the third week, Hakyeon returned to his bedchamber to find that the pillow was gone. A heavier fur lay on top of the blankets, covering the bed; Hakyeon's pillow was now centered at its head. 

In the fourth week, Hakyeon noticed a fine layer of dust coating one of the golden circlets, dulling its shine.

The work of governance itself was not difficult. Much of the labor was mental; problems must be solved, laws remembered, precedents set. Day by day, Hakyeon delegated these tasks further, unable to bring his mind to bear. He heard cases of petty theft and price gouging, an elderly farmer's boundary stones intersecting another's property, all the wonted problems of their small pastoral kingdom. Hakyeon would glance to his left, looking to meet Hongbin's eyes in silent deliberation.

He would find only the empty throne. He would come back to himself, glance to his right, where Philokyros, the head of Hakyeon's advisory staff, stood ready and ever-willing to offer input. He remembered the laws. More and more, he also solved the problems and set the precedents, because to Hakyeon, the empty space where Hongbin should have been was expanding daily to press in on his mind.

He awakened, reached out, found himself alone. He stood, called his servants to attend him. Placed the golden circlet on his head. 

In the sixth week, he felt himself beginning to fracture. At times, he moved about in a fog; at others, he could not stop the racing of his thoughts, counting eventualities like so much stolen livestock. Had it only been six weeks? The war was fated to last through ten winters; the sun still bore down on Phylace just as heavily as it had six weeks ago. Winter had not yet come, and yet, ten winters would pass before he set his tired eyes on Hongbin. 

In the seventh week, Chrysokome, the shaggy, tawny-eyed tabby cat whom Hakyeon furtively paid in pastries to keep the castle free of mice, stole into his bedroom, curling up under his arm warmly. He brushed his fingers over her soft fur, whispering to her. _What if he never returns from Troy? What am I to do for these ten years alone, if I have gone to pieces before half of one has elapsed?_

He awakened, found himself huddled up next to a purring ball of fur. He tarried longer in bed, now, stroking his hand over each wobbly stripe, meeting her knowing yellow stare. He called his servants, put on his circlet, and carried out his duties—if not with his usual acumen, then with some semblance of it.

A week's journey separated Phylace from Aulis—two days on horseback to coastal Antron, and five days' sailing. Whispers had begun to crop up that the Greek fleet remained at Aulis, even after a month of Hongbin's absence. No wind came to fill their sails, and so the war at Troy had not yet started. It was then that Hakyeon had penned his letter, spilling forth his emotions, his bereft love, his fear, and sent it with a trusted messenger to Antron, to be borne to Aulis on a former merchant ship which now brought only provisions.

Three months passed, and no reply came, from Aulis or otherwise.

***

There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about this day. 

When he called a break in his duties at midday, Hakyeon removed the gilded laurels from his head and handed them off to Philokyros. He made his way to the humble household altar, where a small wax effigy of Hongbin stood suppliant to the figures of the gods. As he prayed for his husband's safe return and victory in war, images of blood and death flashed behind his eyelids. A month ago, two months, Hakyeon's heart would have seized with terror; now, he was entirely accustomed to visions of the clash of spears and shields and bloodstained armor.

Soft fur brushed at his hand, and he opened his eyes. Chrysokome slunk under his hand, demanding his attention. The spoiled little barn cat. She made to bat at the wax figure on the altar, but Hakyeon tugged her back with a sharp admonishment. "Do not purr," he warned her. "You're being chastised." She paid him no heed, flopping onto her side next to the altar.

Hakyeon shook his head fondly and stood, brushing his short, severe chiton back into place. He headed next to his chambers, where a light meal had been laid out for him, and rested there before returning to the throne room, accepting his circlet from Philokyros, and resuming his seat on the right-hand throne.

No sooner had he done so than theman he had stationed at the open doors of the castle announced the arrival of a messenger, his piercing voice resounding from the stone walls. Hakyeon nodded to Philokyros, standing at his right shoulder, and the servant called out permission to enter.

The messenger who entered the throne room was not the one Hakyeon had sent so long ago. He was tall and broad, lightly tanned, wearing a white chiton which was only slightly dirtied from the dust of the road. His hair gleamed a soft gold when he knelt before the throne.

"Announce yourself," Hakyeon requested.

The messenger stood. "I am Hyuk, _angelos_ , returning a letter which you sent to Aulis. I was told the recipient has fallen to the Trojans." He reached into the leather satchel at his side and pulled out a scroll of papyrus, proffering it to Hakyeon, who took it with trembling fingers.

He hoped, as he unrolled it, that there was some mistake. But no, those were his carefully neat characters spelling out _Hakyeon, to his Hongbin, sends his salutations_.He allowed the papyrus to roll back into place as the air left the room, his breath shortening to quick, shallow gasps. He mastered himself long enough to thank the messenger.

"I offer my deepest condolences, my lord," the messenger responded before he was dismissed by Philokyros, politely refusing his offer of hospitality for the night. 

Hakyeon did not feel his hands shaking, but knew that they were. He fumbled his circlet of laurels as he handed it off to Philokyros, blood rushing through his ears and deafening him to whatever pleas came from his servant. Hakyeon stood clumsily, shaking his head perfunctorily at Philokyros before stumbling out of the throne room, toward the altar he had only recently left. 

The statues of Zeus and Hestia tipped over as Hakyeon swiped the suppliant wax effigy from the altar, walking briskly toward his chambers, all the more compelled by the sudden weakness in his knees. If he did not make enough haste, his legs would give out before he was in the privacy of his own room.

The gods granted him only this token bit of compassion. He collapsed onto the cold floor, the waxen figure of Hongbin falling from his hand as his senses left him. Hearing had already gone; now, too, he could not feel, he was numb. His mouth felt full of ashes, he could no longer bear to drag air past his dry lips; his sight bled to brilliant white, then pulsating red, back to white, and finally, mercifully, black.

***

Jaehwan was alone this time when he swept into the throne room of the halls of the dead, his dawn-colored himation billowing with his purposeful strides. At the sound of sandaled feet on cold marble floors, Taekwoon opened his eyes, fixing them on Jaehwan, who came to an abrupt halt at the foot of the throne. His lit his gaze, narrow and pugnacious, on Taekwoon. 

For a moment, they were locked in a silent contest of wills, before Taekwoon broke the tense stare by cutting his eyes to the side and down. "Taekwoon," Jaehwan asked, sardonic amusement lilting his voice. "Are you— _ashamed_ of yourself?"

A pause stretched out between them, tense and unfriendly. Jaehwan watched Taekwoon's throat work around words he did not say; centuries had passed since Taekwoon left Olympus, and acting as the arbiter of the dead had not done much for his eloquence. A minute ticked by, and Jaehwan lifted one eyebrow cruelly, expectantly. One minute here, hours for his grieving prince.

Finally, Taekwoon found words—short and terse, but spoken nonetheless. "His shade has arrived in the Elysian fields."

"Not into the meadows of Asphodel? Surely he was no more than _average_ to the god of death." Jaehwan's caustic tone had its intended effect. Taekwoon visibly steeled himself before facing Jaehwan head-on.

Jaehwan tilted his chin up defiantly as Taekwoon sighed, a quiet rush of air. "I feel no shame, Jaehwan. I merely carry out my duties. Above, the dead are burned, ritual observed. Below, I guide them into the eternal life they have earned." The intricacies of Taekwoon's office have not ever escaped Jaehwan—beholden to the Fates, knowing the end of every war, the life of every man. An augur who sent vengeance, and a merciful judge.

"He prays," Jaehwan hurled back. "Every day, every hour, neglecting himself and his kingdom. He prays unceasingly. His knees are bruised from the floor, and he takes his meals before the altar."

"I know," Taekwoon murmured, but Jaehwan could not be stopped.

" _Give me more time_. Every minute, Taekwoon, he begs me, _me_ , because you _will not hear prayer_. I hear him whispering of _my cruelty_ in robbing him of his husband, and I was not the one who reaped vengeance on him. His heart screams in vain, because _I_ did not send Nemesis, and I can't _do_ anything to alleviate what the Fates have carried out. Do you understand me, Taekwoon? I can do _nothing._ "

"I _know_ ," Taekwoon repeated, pitch and volume rising in tandem. "Jaehwan—"

Jaehwan swept out a hand imperiously, cutting Taekwoon off mid-plea. "We owe each other nothing, Taekwoon, our debts have been squared away. If I ask anything, it is as a mere advocate for the Iolcan prince." Pausing briefly in thought, Jaehwan shifted course, voice gentling as he looked mock-sweetly at Taekwoon. 

"Your human lover will die. You will watch, because you see the fate of every single mortal being, as he chokes on his own blood. You will not see him grow joyously old. He will have no children and no wife." Jaehwan's lips tipped into a small smile. "The gods will rally to avenge Sarpedon. Apollo. _Zeus_ , your own brother. They will hasten sweet, pretty Wonshik into your cold embrace. He may wish to be here, but it is one thing, I find, for mortals to accept the idea of death, and another thing entirely to be faced with the reality of it.

"Tell me, Taekwoon, did you show him his death? Or did you show him only the aftermath, heartbroken Pelides swearing vengeance?"

" _Enough._ " Taekwoon's voice, usually feathery and soft, rang with finality. As Jaehwan blinked up at him, that one eyebrow returning to its delicate arch, the cold anger melted from Taekwoon all at once. "Enough, Jaehwan," he repeated, anguished, and Jaehwan closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, savoring the moment. Love brought joy, yes, but also pain and heartache, deeply satisfying to watch in the frigid lord of the underworld.

For a moment, silence fell over the throne room, the sound of two unrelenting forces in failing negotiation. At last, Taekwoon took a deep breath, sighing it out once again as he put his head in one pale hand.

"I cannot return his shade from Elysium, Jaehwan. It is not within my power, without some deep debt owed."

"Grant him time, then. Both of them."

"Nothing is ever so simple in the workings of fate between life and death, Jaehwan," Taekwoon explained hotly. "Once a shade has stepped on my threshold, my halls become his home. It is as profound a rite as your marriages."

Jaehwan spoke slowly, deliberately. "Hongbin Phylacides died, leaving my rites unfinished for eternity. I will take what I am owed, with time as the currency. Three hours—that is how long it would have taken for the ritual marriage sacrifice. That is what I demand from you."

"Twofold vengeance," Taekwoon murmured in response. "The oracle cannot be made false. If I allow you this, Jaehwan, I must take Hakyeon as well."

The god of love could be as cold as the Lord of the Dead. His expression smoothed into chilly indifference as he stared up at Taekwoon, who met his eyes now, face blank. "So be it. You receive two souls into your halls, and I receive tribute for an unfinished marriage. We both profit." Jaehwan extended his arm for Taekwoon to grasp. "Do we have an accord, _Aidoneus_?" 

Taekwoon clasped Jaehwan's forearm in return. "We have a deal, _Eros_." Before he could break away, Jaehwan yanked at their arms, drawing Taekwoon sharply forward. His smile was nothing less than devious as his beautiful face filled Taekwoon's vision, the very embodiment of temptation and desire.

"Seal it with a kiss," he whispered, leaning in. Their lips met harshly, a fierce clash of teeth. Ichor bled out sluggishly over Jaehwan's lower lip. Taekwoon's free hand fisted painfully in Jaehwan's hair, and he laughed, delighted, as he pulled back, relinquishing Taekwoon's arm. There had been ancient magic exchanged in their kiss, as old as love and death. 

Taekwoon's fingertips skittered across his reddened lips as Jaehwan's laughter faded into a triumphant little smile. "I'll send Sanghyuk to retrieve his shade," Jaehwan declared, casting a sly look at Taekwoon as he swept out of the throne room as quickly as he had come.

***

"So we're entirely clear, you're—Hermes?"

Sanghyuk sighed through gritted teeth. "Yes. I am Hermes. I'm here to take you back to your husband."

"Hakyeon?" the shade asked eagerly, though they had already been through this line of conversation. "You're serious?" He paused, considering. "He's the only thing missing here. I promised him I'd come home to him." Another beat of silence. "He's going to kill me."

 _Zeus Patroios_ , Sanghyuk prayed mentally. _Give me patience_. "He isn't going to kill you, Phylacides." 

"You say that now," Hongbin babbled as Sanghyuk steered him toward the gates of the underworld with a commanding hand on his shoulder. "You didn't see him when he realized I'd forgotten to ask the staff to change the bedding after our marriage night..."

Put aside Taekwoon and the Fates entirely, Jaehwan owed _Sanghyuk_ a debt. He'd just reaped vengeance on this soul not a week ago, and now he was listening to blow-by-blow accounts—literally—of his life on earth, which, Sanghyuk mentally reiterated, _Sanghyuk had been the one to cut short_. His accustomed dealings with mortals, when he suffered them, were not with sheep-kings, but with heroes and beautiful women.

The prince of Phylace was painfully _ordinary._ Nothing stood out in his character. Those mortals who were fit to live on Olympus after their deaths always held some exceptional trait—stubbornness, or bravery, or wit, or radiant good looks, or some combination thereof. _What_ , then, was Jaehwan's fascination with this one? He was handsome, yes, but not radiant; stubborn, yes, and devoted to his husband, but there was no spark of the divine in him. 

_He's not meant for Olympus, anyway,_ Sanghyuk reminded himself as he paraded Hongbin's still-talking soul past the throne of Hades, who gazed on impassively. "Come on, Phylacides, you need to pick up the pace. If you get there too long after he appears to your Iolcan prince, Hakyeon might just annoy him into rescinding the little deal he's struck with Hades, and then _I_ can't exact sexual favors from Eros later."

Hongbin, stunned into silence, allowed Sanghyuk to pull him a bit more quickly, clinging limpet-like to Sanghyuk as his winged sandals bore them both from the bowels of the earth.

***

Hakyeon would have liked to admit to a modicum of shame for smacking the god of love with a rolled-up scroll of papyrus. Not only once, but repeatedly, laying into him with sharp words punctuated by a flurry of blows. To admit to a modicum of shame, though, would have been dishonest, and Hakyeon was many things, but he was not dishonest.

As he collected himself, falling from his mottled-blue knees to sit next to the altar, wiping his tears messily from his face, the god of love watched him with an air of distinct vexation. "I do _not_ deceive you," Eros insisted, his full lips pursing in a pout that surely brought men to their knees. As Hakyeon was already on his knees, and unimpressed to boot, he simply scoffed. 

"I will believe you, Eros, when I see him again." Hakyeon sniffed, the noise watery and loud and _human_ next to the radiant love god, who gazed down at Hakyeon, brows drawn neatly into a line, a furrow between them. 

The events which shaped Hakyeon's life always seemed to take place on days which were, to all appearances, like any other. In his youth, his father had received the king of Phylace into their halls, and Hakyeon had attended him in the grand throne room, bored out of his mind with the daily routine of court. It was on that day—a perfectly ordinary day—that Hakyeon had set eyes on the young prince of Phylace, and a new thread, radiant and golden, was woven into the tapestry of his life.

It had been a perfectly ordinary day when Menelaus's messenger came. It was an ordinary day when Hakyeon sent the letter to Aulis, and an ordinary day when it returned to him unread. By his estimation, then, every day was perfectly ordinary until some grand event made it exceptional. These were the workings of Fate, suddenly picking up some new skein of thread, Clotho running her ageless fingers over the warp and the weft of men's lives.

Today had been a perfectly ordinary day, by whatever measure he used now. It was a particular cruelty of human nature that even grief settled into a pattern. For Hakyeon, it was prayer, taking his meals before the altar, whispering tearfully to the attentive tabby cat who had become his constant companion.

She had suddenly run behind Hakyeon and out of the room which housed the altar, today, and the tall, imposing figure of the god of love appeared. 

Eros was tall and tan, his hair a warm, light brown. He wore only a shimmering dawn-pink himation, which hung tantalizingly from his shoulder and hips. He was nothing like the descriptions of the god of love Hakyeon had been fed his entire life, growing up with the old origin stories of the twelve Olympians. 

He could not be blamed, therefore, for skittering away from the altar, pressing his back to the wall, and demanding to know the identity of the strange, inhumanly beautiful man who suddenly _existed_ in Hakyeon's home. 

"You—" Hakyeon stammered, blood fleeing from his face. "You—" His mind raced to an altogether absurd conclusion. " _Have you been my cat this entire time?_ " he asked, horrified. The man raised his eyebrow delicately.

"You're very cute, and _very_ stupid. Your cat is just a cat, my pretty mortal prince." The man shifted to slouch against the wall next to the household altar. "I am the god to whom you've prayed day in and day out since you learned of your husband's death. I am the god who brought you together, and," he studied his spotless nails in mock interest, "I am the god whom you deeply, _deeply_ disrespected by neglecting your marriage rites in favor of _sticking it in_ a few hours sooner."

Realization broke over Hakyeon in one cold wave. "Eros," he whispered, and the god—for it was he—gestured to Hakyeon and winked. 

"Well spotted. I've come as the bearer of good news and bad, since my lover—" He did not have a chance to finish his sentence before Hakyeon's self-discipline rallied, manifesting itself as rage. 

" _You_ ," Hakyeon accused. " _You started this war_. _You_ offered Helen to Paris! You knew the weakness of men and you offered him _the most beautiful woman in the world_ , and you _started this war_ and now Hongbin is _dead_!" Philokyros had, earlier, brought in a papyrus scroll on which he'd recorded a list of issues brought before the throne today. Now, Hakyeon remembered it, clutched in his hand, and all but flew across the small room, bringing the scroll down soundly on the top of Eros's gleaming head.

"You—killed—my— _husband_!" Hakyeon reiterated, punctuating each word with another blow, on Eros' shoulders, his upper arms. "You _brought us together_ and then you _ripped us apart_! We had not even been married a _year_! And he was to be gone for _ten_! And now he is gone _forever_!" As a Parthian shot, when Hakyeon collapsed next to the altar, in tears, he threw the scroll bodily at Eros, who seemed to have been struck entirely dumb. It fluttered noisily midair before falling to the ground. 

Hakyeon put his face in his hands and sobbed, the deep, gut-wrenching sobs he had only previous let escape in the privacy of his own empty chambers. He sat before the figures of Zeus and Hera, under the vaguely sympathetic eye of Eros, and cried, mourning anew for his broken home, the shattered remnants of the life he had built with Hongbin. 

"You lie to me," Hakyeon whimpered, muffled by his hands. "You cannot bring good news. You bring only destruction and ruin. You give men a taste of perfect happiness and then you snatch it away." Eros pressed his lips together as if physically holding back a retort.

This brought them to where they were now, Hakyeon wiping his tears as Eros insisted that he did not deceive Hakyeon. "I _do_ bear good fortune to you, so _please cease_ this little rampage and _listen._ "

"Speak, then," Hakyeon grumbled, swiping at the tears that still fell.

"I have heard your prayers, Hakyeon. I have been to the underworld, I stood before the throne of Hades and I bargained for your husband. The Lord of the Dead agreed to grant you the time lost in the neglected sacrifice. Three hours with your beloved Hongbin."

The story of Orpheus, promised the return of his own true love, sprang to Hakyeon's mind. "There is a catch," he surmised, and Eros hummed, pushing off the wall to pace the length of the room slowly. 

"I took the payment of my tribute—that's your marriage rites, princess—in the currency of time. In return, _Aidoneus_ must receive his vengeance for the hubris of an unfinished ritual twice over." He paused mid-circuit of the front of the room. "If his shade returns to you for those three hours, both of your souls must arrive in Hades's halls. You will both die. You'll be together, I expect, in the Elysian fields, but you surely won't be living."

Hakyeon's hands covered his bruised knees as he blinked slowly up at Eros. "That is all? My life, in return for three hours with my husband?" Eros's offer seemed lenient, carefully crafted to appeal to Hakyeon. "You lie to me," he repeated hoarsely. "It cannot be so simple."

Tears spread stickily over his face as he wiped the final remnants away to the sound of Eros's insistence that he was not deceiving or tricking Hakyeon in any way. "I will believe you, Eros," Hakyeon cut in serenely, "when I see him again."

He sniffled, and then a knock sounded at the door. Philokyros, most likely, looking for Hakyeon's evaluation of his record, which lay on the floor where it had fallen after Hakyeon used it as a rather ineffectual weapon. "Enter," he called out thickly, and the door swung open, admitting two men.

Before Hakyeon's breath was robbed from him entirely, he noted that the god—for it was Hermes, in a shining white chiton, winged sandals and all—who stepped into the room was none other than the messenger who had borne the unread letter to Hakyeon, a small eternity ago. He did not care at all, knew it only distantly, because behind Hermes, peering eagerly around the doorframe, was Hongbin.

"No," Hakyeon managed to gasp, as Eros crossed his arms over his chest.

"Three hours, Hakyeon. Do not beg me for more time at the end. You agreed to this, and you will be held to it." He cast a pointed glance at Hermes and they both disappeared, gone all at once. Hakyeon was left with Hongbin, who smiled, showing all of his teeth, before his face crumpled into tears. 

"Hakyeon—" he choked, "I'm sorry."

In their previous life, Hakyeon would have been angry. Irritated, at least, and with no qualms about letting Hongbin know he was irritated. Now, he was exhausted from the ups and downs of what had started off as a perfectly ordinary day, and he had no answer for Hongbin except to pull Hongbin into his arms and press his face to Hongbin's neck, kissing the warm skin he found there.

"I love you so dearly," Hakyeon whispered. "You must know that."

" _Philtatos_ ," Hongbin breathed, and he was so _alive_ , so warm everywhere he touched Hakyeon, as young and beautiful as he had been the day he left Hakyeon. "You have not switched perfumes."

Hakyeon laughed giddily as he pulled back enough to meet Hongbin's eyes, shaking his head. "No, because you loved this one so much." Hongbin's wide grin made a reappearance before Hongbin's hand wrapped around the back of Hakyeon's neck, bringing him into a chaste kiss. 

And another, and another, gradually less chaste and more desirous, each mapping the other's clothed body with earnest hands as if afraid they would be torn apart at any moment. "Please," Hakyeon murmured against Hongbin's lips when they parted for air, his own mouth puffy from the force of their kisses. "I need you," he whispered, licking teasingly at Hongbin's parted lips. "I have needed you for so long."

Hongbin hummed acquiescence, the sound catching in his throat, moving his hands to clutch firmly at Hakyeon's buttocks, rucking Hakyeon up against him in a slow grind. "Not here," Hakyeon whined, head lolling back as Hongbin worried at the skin with his keen teeth. "Oh, _oh_ , gods—" The words escaped him as sighs of mixed objection and pleasure, and he pushed Hongbin away weakly. 

"Not here," he repeated, relishing the way Hongbin's arms wrapped around his waist from behind as they made their way toward their bedchamber. Hongbin's hard length pressed against Hakyeon's lower back urgently, his mouth never parting from Hakyeon's neck until they were stumbling across the threshold of the bedchamber. 

Hakyeon kicked the door shut impatiently and set diligently about the task of simultaneously disrobing them, fibulae and fabric tugged away to reveal the beautiful lines of Hongbin's body, intimately familiar, explored thoroughly with hands and lips and tongue. They looked upon each other for a charged moment, drinking in the sweet nectar of desire, before meeting again in a mess of teeth and tongue, frantic, hot, fast.

Hakyeon's heart pounded in his ears as he jumped from the floor, winding his legs around Hongbin's waist, momentum pushing them both to the mattress. Hakyeon rolled his hips sinuously against Hongbin's, sitting firmly astride him, their bare cocks catching gently as they rutted together. Hongbin's teeth found one of Hakyeon's nipples and bit sharply, prompting a loud cry from Hakyeon as his hips jerked forward, a drawn-out moan as Hongbin's tongue followed soothingly.

Their lips met again and Hongbin braced himself on his elbows as Hakyeon seated himself more securely, the intense desire ebbing just for a moment as they reveled in each other, drunk on lust. "Hakyeon," Hongbin groaned as his cock dragged against Hakyeon's, and Hakyeon whined in answer. 

"Please—" Hakyeon's voice was breathier now, tapering off into a whimper as Hongbin's hand circled both of them, stroking slowly and firmly from root to tip as they moved against one another. " _Oh,_ oh—please—Hongbin, _inside_ —"

Hongbin moaned deeply against Hakyeon's neck, nodding as he breathed in again, perfume and skin and sex mingling together. Hakyeon reared back, retrieving a small decanter of oil, slicking his fingers. "No," Hongbin groaned, catching Hakyeon's lips briefly, "let me." He reached for the oil at Hakyeon's sweet noise of pleasure, sliding his fingertips across Hakyeon's entrance as Hakyeon's own fingers slid over Hongbin's cock. It twitched powerfully in his hand, and Hakyeon's grasp tightened when Hongbin slid two fingers in at once, aiming straight for Hakyeon's core.

When Hongbin found what he sought, Hakyeon cried out again, fit to bring Philokyros running, and arched back, baring his neck once more to Hongbin's thirsty mouth. Hongbin curled his fingers over and over, now widening them to stretch Hakyeon open, now focusing intensely on that spot inside him that made him whine and sigh and beg desperately for more. 

A third finger and Hakyeon became restless, hitching his hips up and down on Hongbin's hand, riding him urgently, cock leaking between them as Hakyeon's lips and teeth and hands touched every part of Hongbin he could reach. "Please, please, please," he chanted between nips and kisses, and Hongbin tugged his fingers gently away from Hakyeon before wiping them on the bedclothes—" _Hongbin_ ," Hakyeon admonished—and grasping Hakyeon's hips with both hands, nearly spanning them. 

"Hakyeon," he breathed, as Hakyeon moved forward and sank down on his cock in one smooth motion, his chin falling forward as he panted harshly, lost to pleasure already. "Hakyeon," he repeated, and then, "my Hakyeon." 

This broke something in Hakyeon, and he lifted his hips in a slow roll before wrapping his arms tightly around Hongbin's neck and moving in earnest, taking his pleasure from Hongbin's cock, sighs and moans resounding from their walls once more. "Yes," Hakyeon sighed as Hongbin's tongue traced his chest again, "yes, _yes_ , so _good_ , Hongbin—"

Hongbin's hands flew to Hakyeon's waist again, holding him fully seated on Hongbin's cock as he bore Hakyeon down to the mattress, laying him out and hitching one of his legs up to drape across Hongbin's shoulder as Hongbin drove into him uncontrollably. They moved against one another, frenzied as bacchants, until Hakyeon's cries crescendoed to a peak and he came, untouched, across his chest. 

Hongbin gentled his thrusts through it, Hakyeon's hips twitching onto his cock in slow waves as he reached completion, and then he was gripping harshly at Hongbin's buttocks, urging him to—

" _Move._ "

He did not have to tell Hongbin again; Hongbin sank into Hakyeon, selfishly seeking his own release, deaf to the keening cries of overstimulation from Hakyeon, whose trembling leg came up off the mattress to wrap around Hongbin's waist.

Deeper and deeper, uncontrolled, cock twitching inside Hakyeon, and Hongbin lowered himself to drag a messy kiss across Hakyeon's lips as he finally, _finally_ stilled. They were as close as two people could be. Hakyeon hugged Hongbin to him tightly as they remained joined in a sweaty, panting mass of limbs. 

Even when they parted, drowsing next to one another, Hongbin's face remained buried in Hakyeon's hair. Cinnamon, anise, labdanum.

***

"They just _keep_ _going_ ," Sanghyuk sighed, pointedly looking away from the scrying mirror, and Jaehwan smiled smugly, sharp teeth finding the join of Sanghyuk's neck and shoulder. Sanghyuk pushed him away. "Time and place?"

"The Phylacian prince's altar room, sometime in the afternoon," Jaehwan retorted. "You had no problem necking with me in front of Taekwoon's dog. _Pay attention to me,_ I distinctly remember you saying. If not in so few words."

Sanghyuk reached out and pinched Jaehwan's inner thigh sharply. "You'll get yours later." Nevertheless, he turned his head to press a lingering kiss to Jaehwan's lips, out of sight and attention of the mortal princes. "Besides, you owe me."

"Oh?" Jaehwan's eyes turned back to the mirror, watching as the princes writhed together in their marriage bed.

"Yes, _oh_ ," Sanghyuk grumbled. "Hongbin is _chatty_. I've never guided a soul who felt so compelled to tell me _that much_ about his healthy marriage." 

Jaehwan laughed aloud at this, resting his head amiably on Sanghyuk's shoulder, eyes still fixed on the mirror. "You pick the strangest times to be _prim_. You're as morally bankrupt as I am, most days." Sanghyuk made a small noise of indignation at that, but his hand reached up to ruffle Jaehwan's hair idly. "They truly are a beautiful couple," Jaehwan murmured, fingertips stroking the edge of the mirror, which Sanghyuk held, braced on his knee where they sat on the floor. 

"How much time do they have?" Sanghyuk breathed, tugging lightly at whatever strands of Jaehwan's hair he could catch between his fingers. 

After a hum of consideration, Jaehwan answered, "An hour, perhaps. No more than that, at any rate." He pressed his head more firmly to Sanghyuk's shoulder as blunt nails scraped the skin of his neck. "I didn't set a water clock like some impatient juryman."

"I hear 'whenever they come to a stopping point,'" Sanghyuk quipped. Jaehwan neither confirmed nor denied this, and they fell quiet, Sanghyuk returning to watching the show alongside Jaehwan. 

Not much was enviable about mortality. Life was fleeting; its end could come from any number of causes. Disease, age, violence—all these things threatened it daily. And yet Sanghyuk found himself, for a moment, envying the ease with which these concerns dropped away for mortal men. Time, marching ever onward, Helios and Selene in their gliding chariots, could simply be ignored. Mortals lost themselves in reading, in games, and in sex. With three hours remaining in their lives, the princes of Phylace took to bed and forgot the gods entirely.

With the hand Sanghyuk still held in Jaehwan's hair, he turned Jaehwan's face up to kiss him again, anticipating some acerbic remark about Sanghyuk's hypocrisy. None came, though, and Jaehwan's gaze was unusually soft on him as he turned one kiss into many, sweet and almost chaste. 

"Their hour is up," Jaehwan said neutrally, when they finally parted. "Give me your machaira." Sanghyuk reached into the satchel which lay at his feet and pulled out the curved sacrificial knife, watching as Jaehwan stood and tucked it, businesslike, into the belt which currently girded his himation in place. 

"Jaehwan," Sanghyuk asked softly, "do you want me—"

"I'll see to their deaths." His voice was short. "I'm no amateur to lovers dying on love's behalf. If you want to shepherd them gently toward Taekwoon's halls, be my guest." He said no more to Sanghyuk, striding quickly out of the room and toward the princes' bedchamber. 

***

No denial crossed Hakyeon's lips as the god of love swept silently into the room, betrayed only by the swish of fabric settling. He stepped neatly across the threshold and pulled the door to, looking imperiously down at Hakyeon.

Hongbin's head lay pillowed in Hakyeon's lap, sleeping lightly, occasionally moving to nestle his face further into Hakyeon's thigh. Hakyeon's hand rested possessively between his shoulder blades, stroking his hair delicately whenever he stirred. "I know," Hakyeon murmured, though he did not look at Eros when he spoke. "It's time."

Eros, nodded, his face unreadable, pushing aside his draping himation to pull a knife from his belt. Hakyeon closed his eyes, bracing for pain, but none came. When he opened them again, Eros held the knife out, proffering it to Hakyeon. 

"I—?" Hakyeon whispered hoarsely, but accepted the ornate handle from the god's shining hand. "Only myself?"

"Both of you," Eros answered. "I will guide your hand, but you must hold the blade." 

Tears sprang up and rolled, soundless, down Hakyeon's cheeks as he nodded firmly, resolute. "Please do not let him wake," he begged Eros, who inclined his head faintly and placed one shimmering hand on Hongbin's hair. The other clasped Hakyeon's around the knife.

Hakyeon's breath came in quick, shuddery gasps. He could not see Hongbin's face, though he felt the warm air of Hongbin's steady breathing against his skin. He wanted to see Hongbin's face. He _needed_ —

"My love," he sobbed, almost noiseless. " _Gods_ , my sweet, sweet Hongbin—" His throat closed around whatever words would have come. "I will not be far behind," he finally finished, and his teeth ripped into his lower lip as the god of love, the creator and destroyer of life, guided the tip of the dagger to rest over Hongbin's back, right behind his heart.

Eros's hand tightened over Hakyeon's. He tasted blood on his tongue as, with a sobbing exhale and a firm push, the blade slid home.

Hongbin's breath ceased against his thigh.

Blood welled up over his shoulder blade, where Hakyeon's hand had rested.

Hakyeon felt a scream rising in his chest, but it never came. He looked down at the motionless body of his husband in silent terror. He had done this. The god of love gazed dispassionately down at him, tugging the blade free and repositioning it perfunctorily on Hakyeon's chest this time. The tip pricked keenly above Hakyeon's own beating heart, now racing, now slowing, erratic and panicky. "Will it be quick?" 

"It will be quick. It will not be painless." Eros's voice was entirely devoid of feeling, and Hakyeon took another deep breath, steeling himself. His fingers flexed around the hilt of the dagger, warm from his touch. He pressed the tip of his tongue to the inside of his lower lip, tasting blood again, feeling the dribble of it down his chin. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Nodded to Eros.

Pain ripped through him, but the blade slipped cleanly between his ribs.

Hakyeon's body fell forward, cradling Hongbin's head in his lap.

Two threads, newly twined together, were cut. Atropos, whose name meant _unturned_ , placed them aside, where so many had fallen before.

***

ACT III _finis_


	6. Hakyeon, to his Hongbin, sends his salutations

_Laodamia of Thessaly wishes health to her Thessalian husband, and ardently prays that the Gods may convey this health whither she sends it. It is said that you are detained at Aulis by contrary winds; ah! cruel winds, where were ye when he first parted from me? It was then the seas ought to have opposed themselves to your oars: that was the proper season for the waves to rage. I would have given him many kisses, many admonitions; for I had an abundance of admonitions to give._

_You were suddenly hurried from me; an inviting gale called forth the sails, a gale grateful to the mariners, not to me; a gale that exactly suited their views, but not those of an unhappy lover. I was torn from the embraces of my dear Protesilaus; my faltering tongue gave you its last charge in broken words, and scarcely was I able to utter the mournful adieu. The north-wind sprang up, and stretched the swelling sails. My Protesilaus was soon carried far from me._

_While my husband remained in sight, I found a pleasure in looking at him, and incessantly pursued your eyes with mine. Even after I could no longer see you, I still could behold your sails: the sails kept my eyes long fixed upon them. But when I could no more perceive either you or the flying sails, and nothing appeared to my aching sight beside the sea, light fled also with you; a darkness hung round me, nor were my tottering knees longer able to support my pale frame. My father-in-law Iphiclus, the good old Acastus, and my sorrowful mother, hardly recovered me by sprinkling my face with cold water. They were taken up in a kind good-natured office, but ungrateful to me, who mourn that I was not suffered to finish a wretched life. With my senses, my grief also returned; and a just love preyed upon my chaste heart._

_I now neglect the care of my hanging locks, and refuse to adorn myself with cloth of gold. I wander where-ever my madness urges me, like those whom Bacchus is supposed to have touched with his rod. The Thessalian matrons flock round me. Put on, they cry, Laodamia, the royal robes. Shall I shine in robes of Tyrian purple, and my husband be engaged in a bloody war under the walls of Troy? Shall I adorn my hair, while his head is loaded with a helmet? or strut in new apparel, while he bears about a coat of mail? I will at least be said to copy your hardships in the negligence of my dress, and pass the time of this fatal war in sadness._

_O Paris of the house of Priam, beautiful to the destruction of your country, may you prove as cowardly an enemy, as you were a perfidious guest. How could I wish that you had disliked the countenance of the Lacedæmonian queen, or that she had found less cause to admire yours! And you, Menelaus, who shew too great anxiety about one who so easily consented to be ravished from you, how fatal an avenger will you prove to many! Avert, ye Gods, the dire omen from me; and grant that my husband may consecrate his spoils to Jupiter, the author of his safe return!_

_Yet I am full of fears; and, as often as I think of the horrible war, the tears drop from me like snow melted by the sun. Ilion, and Tenedos, and Simois, and Xanthus, and Ida, are names which, by their very sound, strike me with terror. A stranger would not have ventured to carry her away, had he not known himself able to defend the prize: doubtless, he was well acquainted with his own strength._

_He came, as fame reports, adorned with gold and jewels, and made a show in his person of the riches of Phrygia. He was backed with ships and armed men, by which wars are carried on; and yet how small a part of the population of his country followed him! It was by these, I suspect, daughter of Leda, and sister to the famous twins, that your heart was gained: these, I fear, may prove fatal to the Greeks._

_I have a strong dread of some one named Hector. Hector, Paris was wont to say, knew how to support a war with bloody rage. Beware of this Hector, whoever he is, if you retain any regard for me; let this name be deeply engraven in your mindful breast. When you shun him, remember also to shun others: fancy that there are many Hectors within those walls; and do not fail to say within yourself, as often as you prepare for battle, Laodamia enjoined me to take care of myself for her sake. If fate has ordained that Troy shall fall by the hand of the Greeks, may it fall without your receiving any injury. Let Menelaus fight, and rush among the thickest ranks of the foe, that he may recover from Paris what Paris unjustly ravished from him: let him force his way through them; and, as he triumphs in a better cause, triumph also by arms, and recover his wife from amidst his enemies. The case is different with you; you must fight that you may live, and return safe to your wife's tender caresses._

_Spare, O Trojans, this one out of so many enemies, and spill not my blood by the wounds you give to him. He is not formed to engage cruel foes in close fight, or march up with an undaunted breast to their foremost ranks. He acquits himself better in the combats of love. Let others engage in bloody wars; but let Protesilaus fight under the banners of Cupid. Now I own, that I would gladly have called you back; my heart strongly inclined me to it; but my tongue was silent from the fear of giving a bad omen. When you set out for Troy from your father's gate, your foot gave a presage by striking against the threshold. When I saw it I groaned, and said quietly to myself, May the Gods grant that this may be a presage of my husband's safe return._

_These circumstances I now relate to you, that you may not be too forward in the field, but by your caution may make all my fears vanish in empty air. Fortune hath also doomed some one to an untimely fate, who shall, first of the Greeks, set his foot upon Trojan ground. Unhappy she, fated first to deplore her lost lord! Grant, O ye Gods, that Protesilaus' courage may then fail! May thy ship be the last of a thousand, and in the rear of all the fleet plough the foaming deep. I further admonish you, that you be the last to leave the ship: the shore to which you hasten is not your native soil._

_But, when you return, urge the bark with sail and oars, nor delay a moment to set foot upon the coast of your own country. Whether Phoebus hides his beams, or high in his chariot overlooks the earth, both by day and by night you fill my mind with grief and anxiety: yet the mournful image haunts me more at night than during the day: night is grateful to those whose necks are environed by clasping arms. I catch at empty dreams in a forlorn bed, and must put up with false joys, because the true have fled. But why does your pale shadow stand before me? Why do I incessantly hear you uttering mournful complaints? I start from my sleep, and adore the nightly powers. The Thessalian altars cease not to smoke with sacrifices for your sake. Incense is offered, and tears are shed over it in abundance; with which the flame burns bright, as if sprinkled with wine._

_When shall I again clasp you in my longing arms, and be elate with joy in your embraces? When, happily united with you in the same bed, shall I hear you recount your noble deeds in war? Though I shall be pleased with the recital, yet will your relation be often interrupted by our mutual kisses. These always occasion an agreeable pause in discourse: the tongue is rendered more prompt by such alluring delays. But when I think of Troy, of the winds, and the sea, flattering hopes give way to anxious fears. I am alarmed that your fleet is detained by adverse winds. How can you think of sailing when the sea forbids? What man returns to his own country when the winds are against him? why then do you spread your sails to leave it, when the sea forbids? Neptune himself stops up the way to his own city. Whither hurry you so rashly? Let each return to his own home. Whither, I say, O ye Greeks, do you hurry so rashly? Attend to the voice of the forbidding winds. This delay is no work of blind chance; it comes from the Gods. What do you intend by this mighty war, but to regain a base adulteress? Return, ye Grecian ships, while it yet may be done with honor. But why do I thus call you back?_

_Forbid, ye Gods, every bad omen; and may an inviting gale bear you through the quiet waves. How I envy the lot of the Trojan wives; for, if they are doomed to see the mournful funerals of their husbands, the enemy is however not far off. The youthful bride will with her own hand fix the helmet upon the head of her gallant spouse, and buckle on his shining armor. She will buckle on his armor, and, as she performs the task, often snatch a kiss. This sportive office will be grateful to both. She will partly attend him in his march, affectionately enjoin him to return, and advise him to caution, that he may triumph, and dedicate his arms to Jupiter. He, bearing in mind the fresh injunctions of his beloved spouse, will fight with due care of himself, and think of her whom he has left at home. At his return, she will take from him his shield, and unbuckle the ponderous helmet, while he reclines his wearied breast upon her soft bosom. Unhappy, we are racked with uncertainty; an anxious fear makes us apt to fancy you surrounded with a thousand dangers._

_Yet while you bear armor, and are fighting in remote lands, I take pleasure in contemplating the wax which exhibits your likeness. As if you were present, I make use of the softest expressions, and address it in words due only to my Protesilaus: I even embrace and caress it. Surely it must be so: this image is more than what it seems. Add speech to the statue, and it will be my Protesilaus himself. My eyes are incessantly fixed upon it; I press it to my bosom as if it were indeed my husband, and pour out my complaints to it, vainly hoping for an answer._

_I swear by yourself and your return, so dear to me above all things; by the nuptial torch, and that glowing heart which is only yours; by your beloved head, which, O ye propitious Gods, restore to me unhurt, and give me to see at length venerable with grey hairs; that I am ready to fly whithersoever you call me, and will readily share your fate, whether that should happen which, alas! I too much fear, or the Gods should graciously preserve you. Permit me to conclude my epistle with a small request: If you have yet any love for me, be sure to show it in the care you take of yourself._

Ovid, _Heroides_ 13: Laodamia to Protesilaus


	7. Epilogue: Thronos

At the war's conclusion, servants of the Lord of the Dead shepherd the entire mass of souls who have died in the meantime from the fields of Elysium and the pits of Orcus, into the seldom-used great hall. A feast, complete with barely-watered wine, sumptuous funerary offerings, and joyous entertainment awaits them, Greek and Trojan, one and all.

Here, in the halls of the dead, they do not fight. In this life, Greek and Trojan are no different. Each man and woman died, and the only distinction made is between honor and dishonor. In this moment, though, even this does not separate them.

Hongbin and Hakyeon take their places, near shining Achilles, who does not touch his food or his wine. Hongbin whispers to Hakyeon— _that is Achilles. Aristos Achaion. Is he not beautiful?_

_Yes, but he seems sad,_ Hakyeon says back, sipping at his wine, one hand on Hongbin's thigh. They do not stop touching; they have not stopped touching, one way or another, since they found each other in the Elysian fields.

Hongbin follows Achilles's gaze up to the high table, where Hades sits, solemn, resplendent. He is not what Hongbin has imagined; he is more breathtaking than Achilles himself, though in a remote, untouchable way. He is not meant to be desired, but to be feared, viewed with awe and respect.

As the noise of the feast swells, the souls realizing that it is not all some trick, Achilles does not move. He watches, waiting for something.

Achilles's lips move. _Hector will die at your hand_ , Hongbin reads, moving his own lips in the same pattern. Hakyeon looks at him quizzically. Hongbin shakes his head.

Just when Hongbin has concluded that Achilles has no real reason to watch the high table so intently, the room falls nearly silent, the noise lowering to a quiet buzz as a side door behind the high table swings open to admit another figure.

A tiny smile flits over Hades's cold visage. He gestures minutely to the seat at his right hand.

Wonshik, clad in the same dark himation as Hades himself, takes his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/slowlorisvevo)
> 
> [tumblr](http://rapjoonhyung.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: Twitter user miandwae/mianhae on ao3 (my muse and my constant source of encouragement for this whole thing) has made the most breathtaking fanart of love god Jaehwan. Seriously, it's my phone lockscreen. [Please check it out at this link and give it your love.](https://twitter.com/miandwae/status/921492059265134595)


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